


The Science of Perception

by tallulah99



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 128,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallulah99/pseuds/tallulah99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the fall, and Sherlock has come home to a new complication in his well-ordered existence - the shy pathologist he once trusted with his life. Can he now trust her with his heart, or is she simply a problem that needs solving? In the meantime, a rash of seemingly unrelated murders has followed Sherlock home. Who is behind them and why? Blatant, unrepentant Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Molly Hooper was tired. Her shift should have ended ages ago.

She and Howard had practically been out of the door. Then the call had come in to expedite the toxicology reports on D.I. Brewster's John Doe. She'd taken one look at Howard's expectant face and deflated, her plans for a relaxing evening in front of the telly fading like the last of the autumn sunlight. "No, that's alright. You go on then, yeah? I'll take this one." She'd forced a pleasant smile onto her lips and shrugged back out of her coat.

"Thanks, Moll," Howard said, reaching for the door. "I'll get the next one."

She hadn't even tried pretending to herself that next time would be any different. Howard had a wife and two boys waiting for him at home while Molly had...well, Molly had Toby. She hadn't even got her scarf hung back up before the door swung shut behind Howard's rapidly retreating back. With a deep sigh, she had picked up the files and headed back into the lab.

As with anything one is asked to do after five o'clock on a Friday afternoon, the reports took ages longer than she had anticipated and it was nearly eight before she finally shoved her completed findings into an evidentiary envelope and sent it on its way. Then she headed for the locker room, ready to shed her scrubs and the scent of death that clung to her whenever she worked in the morgue. She yawned and thought fondly of a nice cuppa with Toby curled up in her lap, if he was feeling tolerant.

She was absent-mindedly debating the relative merits of a curry versus the Chinese takeaway that only delivered if she ordered two main courses when she opened the door to her locker.

Molly flicked a glance at her reflection in the mirror on the inside of the door and saw a ghost.

She jerked backwards in surprise and promptly fell over the bench, landing hard on her backside with her legs spraddled.

Well, bollocks.

A dark shape loomed over her, and Molly Hooper's first real look at Sherlock Holmes after more than two years was upside down and backwards, as viewed from her graceless position on the locker room floor. Which about summed up the entirety of their relationship right there.

He looked exactly the way she remembered him, if inverted. His skin was still as pale as porcelain and his eyes, dear God, his incredible eyes, were narrowed at her, but whether in concern or because he thought she was an idiot, she couldn't say and didn't especially want to find out. His dark hair still curled riotously across his forehead. It needed a cut, but she had always preferred it this way, tousled and untidy. It was the only thing about him that ever looked at all out of place.

She scrambled to her feet before he could offer to help her up, which he might have done given long enough to remember that he was supposed to, and then stood, more or less calmly, less than five feet from Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"So. You're back then." She flinched inwardly, feeling inane. She waited for the past two years to be stripped away, for him to raise a sardonic eyebrow and say in that bored voice of his, 'Obviously.' But he didn't. He regarded her with mild eyes, but quirked that small lopsided smile of his that he showed so rarely. The one she had not spent the past two years thinking about. Not at all.

"Yes, Molly. I'm back."

And there it was, the familiar baritone that had, for so long, been relegated to nothing but her memory and that one set of autopsy tapes she happened to be recording once while he was deducing, loudly, in the lab across the hall. She couldn't have repressed her shiver if her life depended on it.

"Oh, well, that's good then." She bobbed her head and wished she had refreshed her makeup after lunch, and then she wished that she hadn't wished it. "Um, welcome back."

A long silence settled between them. That was not unusual, or it hadn't been before, at any rate. They had spent several years working together in near silence; sharing space more than actually being 'together'. She had enjoyed those times when he came to Barts and worked alongside her in the lab even though, generally, he seemed to forget she was there altogether. This was different. This time, he clearly remembered she was there. His cat's eyes were unfathomable, boring into her as if she was some especially challenging piece of evidence that he was attempting to get to the bottom of by sheer force of his gaze.

This wasn't the grand reunion she had envisioned, when she had bothered to envision anything. But then, even when she was envisioning something profound, she had known it would be more like this. She was still plain, simple and unassuming little Molly, that no one thought much about. That she had been the one to help him fake his death in front of the entire world wouldn't much come into it as far as he was concerned. Oh, she knew he was grateful. He appreciated that she had stuck her neck out for him, but this was Sherlock, and his brain processed gratitude differently from – well, everyone. She hadn't even seriously considered that he would come and see her especially when he returned. In her more reasonable moments she had conceded that she would most likely hear about his homecoming through Lestrade. They did see each other on occasion, when their caseloads happened to intersect.

Molly tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. "So, how've you been?" Just once she wished that she could have a conversation with Sherlock without feeling like a complete and utter nit.

"Dead," he said. His face was impassive, but she had known him long enough to recognize the flicker of humour in his eyes.

She laughed, a nervous giggle that she hated the sound of in the close confines of the locker room. "Yes, well, it looks like you're much recovered."

He did smile then, a real one. And strangely, she was happy to see that he _could_ smile. There was something else in his expression that bothered her, something that, on Sherlock; she couldn't find a word for. On anyone else, she would have called it sadness.

"Um, so when did you get back? I bet John and Mrs. Hudson were happy to see you – I mean, of course they were, I just – "

"I've only just arrived on the seven o'clock train," he said, interrupting her stammering. "As to John and Mrs. Hudson's relative level of enthusiasm regarding my return, well, that remains to be seen."

Molly furrowed her brow, certain she had misheard. "You – you mean you came here first?" That couldn't be right, could it?

"Barts _is_ on the way to Baker Street," he said, unwinding his scarf. "It seemed reasonable to stop off on my way."

"Oh, of course. I see." Of course, she didn't actually.

She was a clever woman. She'd done her studies at University College and become one of the youngest pathologists in the country. She'd had several papers published in different medical journals and even had a little side column devoted to her in an issue of Pathology Quarterly. Her mum had the clipping up on the refrigerator. She still only understood what Sherlock Holmes was on about maybe half the time.

She pressed her lips together and flicked a glance up at him. He was looking at her oddly again. She wondered if she had something on her face, but resisted the urge to look in the mirror to check. "So was there something you – uh, did you need something?"

His eyes lit up as if she had asked a question to his liking. "Yes, actually."

She couldn't help her flush of disappointment. He hadn't been back ten minutes, had barely said hello even, and he was here because he needed something. Of course. Of course, how silly of her. How foolish of her to think that he was there to see _her_. He was still Sherlock. He was still – "

"I need to say thank you, Molly, and – I'm sorry."

Molly blinked. "Oh. Well that's – oh." Unexpected is what it was. It wasn't that he never said thank you or apologized. He did, occasionally, but it was rare, and it only happened when he determined that the sentiment was well-deserved. It wouldn't have surprised her at all to discover that this was the first time he had ever uttered those two things within an hour of each other, much less within the same sentence.

He'd taken off his scarf and coat and laid them aside. Now he came towards her until she had to tilt her head back to see his face. He leaned down and kissed her, softly, on her cheek, the opposite of the one he had kissed three Christmases ago. Not that she was keeping track of that sort of thing. "Thank you, Molly Hooper, for helping me die. I couldn't have done it without you."

He towered over her, his presence just a bit overwhelming, his body boxing her in against the wall of lockers at her back. She took a step back and smacked her head on the open locker door. "Oh, ouch, whoops. That was – ha ha, well, uh, I'm glad I could help." She fidgeted, rubbing the back of her head, pleased to see she hadn't added the ignominy of a bleeding scalp wound to the evening. That really would be the capper on her day.

"You saved lives, Molly," he said. "More than just mine." There was no humour in his eyes now. He was intent and focused on her face and it was, frankly, a little alarming.

"I'm glad I could help." She gave him a tight smile and then looked away. She'd been willing to do almost anything for him back then. She would have been willing to do a hell of a lot more if it meant saving his life. Making use of her ready access to a varied supply of cadavers and falsifying a few scribbles on a piece of paper were the least of it. "You don't have to apologize to me though, Sherlock. You've nothing to be sorry for."

"Oh no?" He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Are you certain?" He looked almost amused, which annoyed her no end. Usually, if Sherlock was amused, it was because someone, somewhere was being spectacularly foolish. Quite often, that someone was her.

She squinted up at him with a flash of irritation wondering what he was getting at. "Of course I'm certain. What could you have to apologize for? You did what you had to do to keep your friends safe. I understood why you did it. I still do."

"You're angry with me."

"No, I'm not. Why would I be angry? Really I'm –" And then she stopped and considered, and then, much like a long overdue volcanic eruption, all the frustration and irritation, and yes _anger_ that she'd been harbouring for the past two years came bubbling up to the surface all at once.

He was right. He was always right, dammit. She was not only angry, she was furious.

She could see him steel himself for the tirade she hadn't even realized she was about to unleash on him until she opened her mouth and it all poured out.

"But it's been more than two years! Two years, Sherlock! You never said it would be so long! Do you have any idea how hard that's been? And don't say you do, because you don't. It must've been hard for you – being away from your friends – and I'm sorry, but d'you know what's harder than being away? Being here and having to watch your friends mourn unnecessarily! They were my friends, too, and I've had to lie straight to their faces for two years – well less than that because we don't really talk any more, do we? You were what brought us all together – me and Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade. We were friends because you were our friend. And then you were dead, but you weren't and I just couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand to commiserate with them and laugh over old stories the way you do when someone who's special to you dies. I couldn't do it anymore because I knew! I could just open my mouth and say 'Guess what, ducks? Clever Sherlock's gone and done it again!', but I couldn't!"

Tears like she'd not shed after his 'death' rolled down her cheeks now in fat drops. She knew they were making her look blotchy and awful, but she didn't care. She knew that Sherlock hated dealing with tears because he didn't know how to deal with tears, and she didn't care about that either. Sod him, altogether. He deserved to be uncomfortable. The secret she had been honoured to share with him, honoured because he trusted her enough to share it with her, had been both a blessing and a curse. Knowing he was alive but being unable to tell anyone else had worn her down. The pain of two full years of wondering, of hiding the truth and having such a knot in her chest that she just couldn't bear to be around them anymore, of missing him, and missing them and feeling so much lonelier than she ever had before in her life because, for a while, she had been a part of something more and now that was gone.

"You never said it would be two years," she finished without looking at him. She sniffled and started fishing in the pocket of her scrubs for a tissue.

Sherlock held out a white handkerchief. "Here. Pax. And blow your nose."

She scowled and snatched the white square away from him. "Thanks."

He waited patiently while she blotted her eyes and wiped viciously at her nose. "Feel better now?"

"Yes."

And then, unexpectedly, she was wrapped in his arms. She nearly shrieked.

"I am sorry, Molly," he said. His voice was muffled against her hair.

She stood, stunned, for a moment and then finally put herself together enough to reciprocate his embrace. Tentatively, she put her arms around his waist and let herself hug him back, her cheek resting against his chest, letting herself relax into the warmth of his embrace. She was a little startled to hear the heavy thud of his heart, then felt foolish. Some pathologist she was.

"I am glad you're back, Sherlock. I've missed you." She hadn't meant to say it, but there it was. She had missed him even more than she had expected to, and that was saying rather a lot.

She could feel the rumble of his chuckle beneath her cheek more than actually hear it. "Clearly."

Molly let her arms slide free and took a step back so that she could look up at him again. "Is that why you came here first? So you could get the yelling part over with?"

"Partly that, and partly because Barts _is_ , in fact, on the way to Baker Street. I rather think the 'yelling part', as you call it, has barely begun, however." He sighed. "Eventually I am going to have to tell John, and he's likely to dispense with the formalities and just shoot me." He looked aggrieved.

Molly blinked at him.

"I don't mean that literally, Molly," he said at her nonplussed expression and then narrowed his eyes in thought. "At least, most probably not. It may depend largely on whether he still makes it a habit to carry his gun with him." He retrieved his coat and scarf, still looking pensive. "How is he?"

It struck Molly suddenly that for all that she had watched John suffer terribly through the loss of his friend, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too, Sherlock had had to do much the same thing, but alone, facing unknown dangers based on uncertain information and with no knowledge of when he might be able to return to his old life, if ever. Right then and there, as the realisation tugged painfully at her heart, she forgave him everything.

There hadn't been much to forgive anyway, not really.

"He's alright," she said, nodding. "I mean, he wasn't at first, of course, but then – well, it's been a while, hasn't it? He got – it got better. He's okay now." She chewed at her corner of her lip. "He's met someone. Her name's Mary. I met her once. I think – I think she's been good for him. I think she's helped."

It was hard to tell how Sherlock processed this information. He wasn't looking at her, but at some point off in the distance.

She could only imagine what must be going through his mind now that it was all said and done, now that he was back in London for good, and ready to step back into his old life.

On the night of the fall, after the chaos at the hospital had died down and the emergency responders had all gone on their way, she had snuck him out of the ambulance bay and into her mother's borrowed car and driven him to Cambridge station. Then she had sat and watched him board his train with her heart in her throat. He had walked away from his old life, had left everyone and everything that meant anything to him behind and ridden off into the dark night without a backwards glance. Reversing that process was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever attempted. She wondered if he realised that yet.

"Where did you go?"

"What?" He looked up at her again, seeming startled to find her still standing there. Well, that seemed right, at least. "Oh, yes. I went to Cairo initially and then from there to Yemen. Had to kick around in Prague for a month or so and then spent quite a lot of time in Azerbaijan, of all places –".

"No, no – I meant just now," she interrupted softly, and he looked startled. "You looked like you were somewhere else altogether. You're worried – not about getting shot, of course, but you are worried how he's going to react when he sees you."

Sherlock didn't reply for a time. He had gone still, and Molly thought how very strange that state looked on him. Nervous energy always seemed to keep him bouncing on the balls of his feet, always moving or fidgeting. If he was at all bored, Sherlock was restless. He wasn't restless now.

"I have never bothered to concern myself with the opinions of others," he said at last. "But John was my friend, and he matters."

For a split second, Sherlock's face was open and unguarded, and Molly saw that her first inclination had been the right one. He was sad, and more than that, he really was worried.

"He's going to forgive you, you know." She wasn't sure how she knew that it was absolution that Sherlock craved, but somehow she was certain of it. "I mean, he's probably going to hit you first, but you deserve that, and he'll forgive you, in the end."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but aside from arching one dark eyebrow, he let it pass without remark.

"So what are you going to do now?" she asked. She started collecting her things from her locker, as much because she needed to look somewhere other than at him as because she actually needed to get her bag. "I mean, not right now, but when you're uh - resurrected, so to speak."

"Presuming that I do not, in fact, get shot and catch up with my obituary retroactively, I will start taking cases again immediately. The website only needs a bit of brushing up. I imagine the theatre of my return will be enough to chase a few worthwhile cases out of the woodwork on the basis of my notoriety if nothing else." He grimaced at the prospect.

"I suppose you know that your name was cleared," she said as the thought occurred to her. "With the police, I mean, well, and the press too for that matter. Someone issued an inquiry into that awful Riley woman's story, and it fell apart pretty fast when they really started digging into Jim – I mean Richard Brook."

Sherlock made an amused sound. "'Someone' indeed. It's refreshing to see my brother do something useful for a change. Perhaps he does still possess some tiny sliver of familial obligation."

Confused, Molly gave him a noncommittal smile. "Well, that's nice, isn't it? Family?"

Sherlock cut a sideways glance at her. "Yes, certainly – when they're not the ones putting your life in danger in the first place."

She wrinkled her brow at him, no less confused. "Oh –"

He shook his head. "Never mind, Molly." He slid back into his coat and tossed his scarf around his neck. "Come on. I'll walk you to the train." His back ramrod straight, he stood aside and gestured for her to precede him into the corridor.

Feeling terribly off kilter, she clutched her bag to her chest and let him walk her out of the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire fic came about from the .005 seconds in which we see Sherlock reflected in the mirror on Molly's locker during the teaser trailer for series 3. What can I say? I have a very vivid imagination and am also Captain of the Good Ship Sherlolly. All aboard, y'all!
> 
> Many, varied and heartfelt thanks to the inimitable Katie F for beta-reading the pants off of this sucker; correcting an embarrassing number of run-on sentences and punctuation errors; keeping too many 'Colonialisms' from creeping into the Baker Street vernacular; and, perhaps most importantly of all, for squeeing in all the right spots. I O U, Astro!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It was an odd thing to be walking down the busy London street with Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only resurrected consulting detective, by her side.  He strode down the pavement with his familiar purposeful stride, long legs eating up the distance so that she nearly had jog to keep up with him.

Anyone else would have earned irritable looks from the oncoming pedestrians who had to change their course to avoid colliding with him as he took ownership of the center of the pavement.  But the crowds simply parted around Sherlock like the ocean around a steaming frigate.  They didn’t seem to notice him otherwise.  Molly wondered if they would be so oblivious if he were wearing his deerstalker.  She rather thought not.

Sometimes she understood Sherlock’s misanthropy.  He was a flash of singular brilliance in a world of muted, watery colors.  He could think circles around them – all of them – but he was forced to be in the world among them, able to see the desert in a grain of sand when the rest of them couldn’t make out a thing beyond the end of their own noses, and weren’t interested in trying, anyway.   She thought it must be a lonely life, whatever he might say.

Skipping aside to avoid colliding with a distracted businessman on his mobile, Molly took the opportunity to look up at his bold profile.

Lonely before; lonelier now.

She had known Sherlock for several years before John Watson had come along and had – not a ‘humanizing’ effect, he still hadn’t ever been _that_  – but a way of calming and refining him.  Sherlock Holmes was a live wire in need of grounding, and John had been that for him – focusing his drive, guiding his energies, giving a damn.  Hopefully, he would be all of those things again.  Molly felt a pang in her chest and hoped that she was right about the good doctor’s ability to forgive his friend. 

“Well, this is me then,” she said as they arrived at the stairs that led down to the Tube station.  “Thanks for the escort.”  She smiled, pink-cheeked and breathless from scrambling to keep up with him.  “Off to face your reckoning now, are you?”  For no reason that she could name, she was reluctant to say goodbye to him.

“What?  Oh, no.”  Sherlock stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the collar of his coat turned up against the brisk autumn wind.  He glanced around almost as if he was unsure of where he was.  Molly was certain he knew _that_  quite well, and was instead merely deducing which of their fellow pedestrians were having beans and toast for their dinner based on which way they carried their briefcase.  “No, I’m not going back to Baker Street tonight.  Mrs. Hudson is out for the evening and, while John is in, he is also with his…lady friend.  Not the most ideal time to come back to life, I should think.”  

The flicker of annoyance on Sherlock’s face almost made her laugh.  Gone for more than two years, returning with nary a word to anyone and still perfectly capable of being put out when people had the audacity to make inconvenient plans.  She didn’t even bother to ask how he knew the particulars of his friends’ daily schedule given that he’d been in another country until the day before.

“Oh, well, you can stay at mine tonight, if you like.  I have a bed – or rather I have _two_  beds – one for me and one for you.”  She gave a nervous laugh, and wished that she could kick herself for opening her mouth in the first place.  Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.  “There’s a guest room, I mean.  I had a flat share for a bit, but she – she got married and well, now I have an extra room.  And it’s, uh, got a bed – that you can use – tonight, if you like.”  She gave him an awkward, wobbly smile and then rushed on.  “I mean, if you don’t – you know – have a place, but I’m sure you do.  Sorry, I just – I just thought – “

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said, heading her off with a short incline of his head.  She could see the tension on his face as he laboriously worked out the social norms required of him in the situation.  “That would do nicely.”

“It would?”  It took a long moment for her to realize he had accepted her offer.  She covered her discomfiture with a cheerful smile. “Oh, right, well, that sounds – good.  Off we go then!”  She turned toward the steps to the Tube station, making incredulous faces to herself until she realized he could see her in the reflective surface of the advert stands.  She desisted with a wince.

The train ride was largely a quiet one.  Sherlock seemed introspective, but it was difficult to know what was really going on behind those icy blue-green eyes.  He watched out the windows as London flashed past them in a dark and light-streaked blur.  Had he missed the city?  Had he missed his friends?  Could Sherlock _miss_?  Was even that too emotional of an entanglement for him?  He was as much a mystery now as he had ever been; more so, even.  So much could happen in the course of two years...well, to other people, anyway.  Not much had happened to Molly during that time, but then nothing much ever did.

Two years ago she had been getting up, catching the train, doing her shift at Bart’s and then coming home to an empty flat.  Two years from now, she imagined she would be doing much the same thing.  How had so much time gone by with no appreciable difference in her life?  She had the sudden flash of her life, twenty years from now - getting up from the same bed, riding the same train and going to the same job - and then, for just a split second, she hated it.  Hated the monotony, hated the unending sameness of it all.

And then she looked up and saw Sherlock watching her, and a smile spread across her face just as the train pulled into her station.

Molly jogged up two flights of stairs with Sherlock on her heels like an overgrown puppy.  She wished pointlessly that she had time to dash in and tidy up before she let him in, but she merely took a deep breath and pushed through the door, careful to block the gap with her body until she could ascertain that Toby wasn’t waiting to dash between her legs and escape out into the corridor, again.

“Alright then,” she said, attempting to be airy.  “Here’s mine.”  She dropped her bag on the side table and darted a quick look around the room, wondering what he would deduce from the comfortable chaos of her flat.  She was tidy by nature, but, with only herself to please and no one to say otherwise, her furnishings were a diverse hodgepodge of pieces that had struck her fancy regardless of how they tied in with the rest of the room.  She knew it gave the room a messy, slapdash air, but she liked it.  It felt cozy – lived in.  Posh as Sherlock’s flat had been under all the mess, she had no doubt that he would hate her eclectic disorder.

“Oh, I forgot –“ She seized her leftover breakfast dishes and darted into the tiny kitchen with them, absurdly embarrassed for Sherlock to see the dried-up eggs and toast she had wolfed down on her way out the door that morning.

When she came back into the sitting area, Sherlock had removed his coat and was on her sofa with his fingers tented and pressed against his lips, sitting nose to nose with her cat.  Toby stood on the coffee table, leaning forward in order to better examine their guest.  Sherlock was, of course, examining him right back.

“I’ve met your flatmate,” he said without looking up.  Toby’s tail swished back and forth in curiosity and then, with one last flick, he turned his nose up in dismissal and leapt silently to the floor.

“He owns the place.  I just live here,” Molly said with an affectionate smile at Toby’s retreating back.

“It’s good that you have company.”

It was a very un-Sherlock-like thing to say, and Molly gave him a puzzled look, which he did not appear to notice.  She wondered suddenly what had happened to him in the past two years.  How much had he seen?  How much had he faced on his own?

“Um, it is,” she said.  “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”  She gestured awkwardly down the hallway with her thumb.  “Do you want me to show you the room?”

Molly always felt diminutive around Sherlock, physically, intellectually or otherwise.  Just now she felt very small indeed as she led him the few steps down the narrow hallway to the second bedroom.  He took up a lot of space

She nudged the door open and stood out of the way.  

He seemed larger than usual in the small confines of the room.  It was almost ridiculous to think of him tucked underneath her old flower sprigged duvet, the coiled-spring of his body relaxed finally in the abandonment of sleep.  With a massive force of will, she managed to push that mental picture out of her head.  

“Sorry, it’s not much, but it should do you for one night anyway.  The reprieve before the storm and all.”  She laughed.

He gave her a puzzled look and she stuttered.  “Oh, I just meant – sorry –“

“No, no.  It’s fine.  It’s more than sufficient.”  He turned restlessly in the enclosed space and then stilled abruptly and took a deep breath.  “Thank you, Molly,” he said.  She could see the effort it took for him to look her in the eye.  “You’ve always been so much kinder to me than what I deserve.”

She blinked at him, completely at a loss.  “Tea!” she blurted at last and then blushed.  “Sorry, I mean I’m going to put the kettle on.  Would you like some?”  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and headed back to the kitchen, wondering if she would ever feel completely at ease in that man’s presence.

The familiar steps of putting the kettle on to boil were soothing.  She had regained her equanimity, however temporarily, by the time Sherlock rejoined her.  It was only a matter of time before he knocked her sideways again, but she would enjoy the reprieve while she could.

“You don’t have any luggage, do you?” she asked.

“No,” he said without looking at her.  He was examining the interior of her kitchen with the same deceptively mild curiosity that he applied to every situation, no doubt cataloging the truly pitiful number of single serving trays that were stacked up in the bin or the nearly empty white squares on the American Short-hair calendar that hung slightly askew on the side of her fridge.  “There was nothing I felt compelled to bring home with me directly.  I had a few things shipped, but they won’t be arriving for several days.”  

Molly nodded in understanding, but inwardly shook her head in wonder that a grown man wouldn’t think to pack an overnight bag.  “Right.  Well, I have a spare toothbrush that’s yours if you want it.  I’m afraid I haven’t anything to offer you in the way of pajamas.”  She was blushing furiously, but he seemed not to notice.

“Not a problem.  I rarely sleep clothed.”  Having presumably concluded his assessment of her kitchen, if not the entirety of her life since had last seen her, he rounded on her with an expectant look.  “Now, what about dinner?”

Later, after their orders of beef with broccoli and Szechuan chicken had been reduced to empty, sauce-splattered tins, Molly sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in her least ratty dressing gown, with her final cup of tea for the night, and eyed Sherlock speculatively over the rim of her cup.

“What?” he asked, crossly.  “Why are you goggling at me like that?  Do I have something on my face?”

“I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat so much at one time.  You must’ve been famished.”  She cocked her head to the side and examined him for a change, noting the way his shirt hung looser on his shoulders and his even more prominent than usual cheekbones.  “You’ve lost quite a lot of weight, haven’t you?  You haven’t been eating well.”  She wasn’t sure why, knowing his habits, but she felt her heart clench, all the same.

“Oh, excellent deduction, Doctor Hooper; gold star.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes in barely suppressed annoyance.  “You know I never eat much when I’m on a case.”

“No, but this wasn’t just a case, was it?  This was a mission.”  She narrowed her eyes and studied his face, refusing to flinch even when he furrowed his brow and glared at her.  “You’ve been living hard altogether.  It’s not just the eating.  You haven’t been sleeping either.  And you’ve been in danger – a lot of danger.”  Without thinking she reached up to touch the fading bruise that wasn’t quite concealed by the dark sweep of his hair.  He jerked backwards and she let her hand drop with a shake of her head, unable to push away the pained sympathy in her eyes even though she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it.  “Was it so important as all that?  Moriarty – Jim was already dead.” 

“But his syndicate was alive and kicking.”  Sherlock stood abruptly and moved restively around the tight space. “Cut off the head and the body will die, but Moriarty wasn’t the head of anything.  He was a cancer, a disseminated idea that grew and spread and reached malevolent fingers into a hundred different dark places.  His network suffered when he died.  They retreated, but not to lick their wounds and scatter like rats.  Oh no, they withdrew to regroup, to gain a firmer foothold, to bide their time until the moment was right to re-launch their enterprise, only this time, without Moriarty’s failings.”

Molly watched Sherlock pace furiously.  “His failings?

He gave an unpleasant laugh.  “Oh, certainly.  James Moriarty was a genius.  He was shrewd and cunning and brilliant and his moral compass didn’t exactly point north – there would have been _nothing_  to stop him.  He could have toppled world governments if he’d wanted to, but he was _bored_  and that was his downfall.  That was why he came after me particularly, the challenge, the high of finding a worthy adversary to pit himself against.  What fun is it to defeat an opponent when you already know that his skill is below yours?  Moriarty was willing to lose, to _die_ , just to find the one person in the whole world who could outthink him.”

“And he did.  He found you.”

Sherlock stopped in his pacing and gave Molly a searching look.  “Yes.  Yes, he found me.”  His gaze lingered on her for a moment, shrewd eyes narrowed in scrutiny.  “But that was his downfall – the game.  He simply couldn’t resist the desire to play.  The players he left behind have no such compunction.”  A fierce gleam shone in his eyes and his loose fingers curled into fists.  “ _Had_.”

Molly was almost taken aback by the intensity on his face.  She had seen him focused and intense, determined and even, on a very few occasions, actually angry.  This was something entirely new, and not just a little bit terrifying, to behold.

He saw her expression and softened, relaxing the rigidity in his posture with visible effort.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.  It’s over now.  It’s done.”  He dropped back onto the sofa and steepled his fingers in thoughtful contemplation.  “The organization that Jim Moriarty left to carry on after his death is destroyed, the pieces are scattered.”  His voice dropped an octave.  “ _I won_.”

Molly hesitated for a second and then pushed to her feet and bridged the distance between them before she could think twice and change her mind.  He looked up with a puzzled frown and drew back, but she was determined.  With shaking fingers, she leaned forward, brushing the curly hair from his forehead, and pressed a gentle kiss beside the dark smudge on his otherwise flawless brow.  She felt him startle beneath her touch, but she lingered for a moment and whispered.  “Thank you, Sherlock.  I – thank you.”  

Embarrassed by her own effrontery, she turned then and gathered up the tea things without looking back at his surprised face.  “I’m just off to bed then, alright?” she called over her shoulder, anxious to put some distance between herself and that moment of temporary insanity.  “Let me know if you need anything!”

She closed the door to her bedroom and leaned against it, feeling foolish.  And then she smiled, if ruefully.  It certainly hadn’t taken long for her and Sherlock to fall right back into their usual routine – him acting all mysterious and enigmatic and her acting like a fool.  Some things, she decided, would never change.  She sighed and started getting ready for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My continuing thanks to the lovely and talented Katie F for schooling me on all things grammatical and teaching me to, at last, recognize a run-on sentence - most of the time, at least. I genuflect in your general direction.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock sat for some time on the edge of the sofa in Molly’s ridiculous jumble of a sitting room, just as she had left him, staring pensively off into space. He was trying hard not to think about the warm press of her lips against his forehead. Trying to _not_ think was a unique exercise.

This day had not gone at all the way he had originally envisioned it.

To start with, he’d had to leave Ashgabat in more of a hurry than he had intended. Having his disreputable back alley lodgings firebombed the night before his anticipated departure had, most decidedly, not been on the agenda.

Small mercy that one of his invaluable, and justifiably well-paid, street urchins had come and dragged him away mere moments before the bomb detonated. The concussion from the explosion had been sufficient to knock them both to the ground and cause injury even fifteen yards away from the site of the blast – not an amateur attempt, and one he had been thankful to walk away from.

He’d been intending to leave on the train later the next day at any rate. Moving his plans up by twelve hours hadn’t seemed like such a drastic reconsideration given the possible alternative, that Hanchik Babayev’s men would take a more ‘hands-on’ approach to eliminating him as a perceived threat and simply slit his throat as he walked the streets.

The adjustment to his schedule, while beneficial inasmuch as it allowed him to keep his head firmly attached to his shoulders, right where he liked it, had, however, affected the timing of his return trip. He’d arrived back in London at seven that evening rather than seven the following morning, as he had originally planned. It was a minor consideration, all things told, but it was a bump in the road to his return to the land of the living.

Oh, Mycroft would know he was back, of course. His brother, with eyes and ears in every corner of the British Empire, had no doubt been informed of Sherlock’s continued good health within seventy-two hours of his ‘suicide’. At least, that was how long it had taken for him to first notice the extra sets of eyes that followed him with much less discretion than Mycroft would probably have preferred. They had not interfered with his plans, however, so he had done what he always did when Mycroft chose to play his little spy games. He had ignored them.

Revealing himself to the others required rather more thought and a great bit more delicacy. He may not understand the need for it, but he did understand that the fallout would be far greater without it. People were so unfathomably sensitive about being fed a lie, any lie, even if it were for their own good.

He had reestablished contact with his homeless network a few weeks earlier, as his infiltration of Moriarty’s extended web of operatives was winding to a close, and had them apprise him of the relative situations of those he had left behind.

He was fully prepared to approach John, and to take whatever abuse his friend felt it necessary to mete out upon learning of his deception, but not at the Baker Street flat – not on home territory. Sherlock might not fully comprehend emotional dynamics, but he needn’t be a skilled student of the human condition to know that he would stand on unacceptably uneven ground if were to simply show up on the front doorstep. And that wasn’t to mention the distinct possibility that John might simply slam the door in his face and have done with it. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes’ deductive reasoning to figure out that the good doctor was going to be very, very angry with him.

Dinner reservations, Ernie had reported back. Doctor John Watson had dinner reservations for two at The Faircot for eight o’clock on the evening of August third. It was perfect. It was public, it was posh and John was much less likely to resort to physical violence in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Sherlock considered his chances of being shot almost negligible under those circumstances. Given time to adjust to the idea, he was certain that John would be _glad_ that he was still alive; he just needed to ensure that his friend had the chance to adjust before he had the chance to commit an act of grievous bodily harm.

His early return hadn’t affected his determination to approach John as originally intended, but it did leave him with a sizable gap in his schedule and nowhere to go in the interim.

The bomb at his apartment had destroyed what few belongings he had accumulated. He had taken to keeping his falsified passport on him at all times, but aside from that and the little cash, in the form of Turkmen manat, that he’d already had on him, he had absolutely nothing else to his name. He was homeless, nameless and as good as penniless when his train arrived back in London. Hardly an auspicious homecoming.

He could have gone to Mycroft, of course, but he would almost prefer to bed down with the rest of the itinerants to avoid having to put up with his brother’s smug condescension. He would have to kowtow to him soon enough if he wanted to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life with a minimum of fuss, but that wasn’t an important consideration just now. He had been dead for more than two years, another day or two among the deceased was no additional hardship.

When the Tube had pulled into the Liverpool Street station, he had disembarked, dazed from hours of travel, exhausted, hungry and hurting and merely followed wherever his feet had chosen to take him.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about fetching up in Molly Hooper’s spare bedroom.

He supposed there was an appealing sort of symmetry to having the first person he encountered upon his return also be the same as the last person he had seen upon his departure. It had been Molly’s pale, earnest face, lit from above by the unflattering flicker of the florescent station lights, that had been his last memory of England for more than two years.

It was mousey little Molly Hooper, whom Jim Moriarty had so underestimated – the shy and quiet pathologist with an unexpected titanium streak that ran through her petite frame. She had helped him die, and saved his life, all in the course of one extremely complicated afternoon.

"Fake my death,"he had said, and she hadn’t even flinched.

"What do you need me to do?" she had replied, those warm brown eyes trained unwaveringly on his own.

"Falsify the post-mortem reports," he had demanded, knowing full well what that would mean for her career should she get caught out.

No hesitation. "What else?"

"Miss me," he had almost said then, but managed to stop himself. She was the only one who would know about him, the only person left in all the world to _miss_  Sherlock Holmes rather than mourn him. They were much the same, really, but for that little hook that tethered him to his old life and served to draw him back home again when his _mission_ , as she termed it, was complete.

It was the difference between being able to let go of the trailing threads of his prior existence and disappearing for good, or stooping to pick them back up and going on from where he had left off. He couldn’t go out and lose himself in the world if Molly Hooper was back in London missing him and waiting for him to come home.

And now, here he sat, all alone in her tiny sitting room – which was just as odd a juxtaposition of unrelated things as was Molly herself. A heavy antique chair with thick brocade upholstery sat cattycorner to the sleek, stylized sofa he was sitting on, neither of which looked like they belonged in the same building with the rustic wooden coffee table. Several mass-market paperback romances were stacked neatly on a side table right next to Case Studies in Hematology and Coagulation and the latest edition of the American Journal of Clinical Pathology. He would have called it ‘eclectic’ if he was feeling generous, which he rarely was. It was ghastly either way.

The thin strip of light beneath Molly’s bedroom door went dark and he twitched a lopsided smile. Poor Molly; he did hope she could overcome her chagrin before he saw her in the morning. She was always more wide-eyed and off balance when she was embarrassed.

He waited a few minutes to ensure that she wouldn’t suddenly remember some pressing need and come barreling back out of her room, and then unfolded himself from the sofa. He was in truly desperate need of a shower.

He grimaced at the frilly yellow and blue décor in the bath and raised an eyebrow at the jovial rubber duck that sat on the edge of the tub amongst the collection of soaps and scrubs and overpriced bottles of skin and hair care products that Molly was continually disappointed in, but too thrifty to discard.

He shrugged carefully out of his shirt and examined himself critically in the mirror over the sink. Most of the wounds on his chest were superficial; they hadn’t bled much to begin with. The bruises would be impressive once they were done settling in, but overall there wasn’t anything there that needed further attention.

His back was a different story.

By craning his head and using Molly’s hand-held mirror to check the awkward angles, Sherlock was able to peel away the hastily applied bandages and inspect the damage with a clinical eye. Three deep lacerations could probably have done with a round of stitches, but they weren’t life threatening. Mihail had picked out the bits of debris and washed the deeper cuts with antiseptic, but they were going to need to be cleaned and re-dressed. He thought he could just manage to avoid an inconvenient trip to hospital, but it was going to be a hell of a thing to get at them without help. He briefly considered waking Molly, but, for all that she was a pathologist and well used to blood and gore, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the emotional fallout that was sure to follow. Not to mention his complete lack of desire to explain to her just why it was that someone had needed to pick bomb fragments from his back _after_ he had taken down Moriarty’s network.

He scowled at his reflection. It was absurd that he had personal relationships with at least three fully-qualified medical doctors, but wasn’t in a position to have a single one of them assist him. He wrenched the bathtub tap on with more force than may have been strictly necessary and stripped out of the rest of his rumpled clothes.

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had taken an actual shower, or even been clean all over at once, for that matter. Rough living had meant doing what he could with a basin of water and a flannel, when time and circumstances permitted, which hadn’t been terribly often. He had done a more thorough job in the cramped confines of the loo aboard the train, wiping away the worst of the grime with actual soap and water from the tap, until he, at least, wasn’t as likely to be mistaken for one of his own homeless network and cited for vagrancy.

Stepping into the steaming water that poured into Molly’s shower was exquisitely painful. He hissed as the spray hit the raw, torn skin on his back, and then stood with his face tilted up and his eyes closed as the hot water sluiced over his body. Indoor plumbing was a distinctly underrated luxury.

He chose the least offensive of Molly’s many soaps and shampoos and scrubbed himself hard under the scalding water until his entire body was pink and tingling.

If he could have taken a step back and examined himself with his usual critical eye, he might have acknowledged the symbolism behind this aggressive self-abuse.

More than twenty-seven months ago, Sherlock Holmes had plunged to his death from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and in his place, Joseph Bell, lately of Edinburgh, Scotland, had been born. For more than two years he had walked through foul and dark places wearing another man’s skin, and the time had finally come to shed it. Sherlock Holmes must be born anew.

By the time he stepped out of the shower, completely clean for the first time in months, exhaustion had begun to pluck at him with insistent fingers. His hands felt large and clumsy and refused to cooperate. He cursed under his breath when his sore muscles registered their discontent as he contorted his upper body to redress the wounds on his back.

He blamed Molly.

If she were not so inconveniently tender-hearted – if she would not takes his injuries so _personally_ – he could have asked her to dress them for him and been done with it. He could have avoided all this ridiculous twisting and pulling and had the thing done properly, by a doctor.

Feeling uncharitable towards his hostess, Sherlock dropped his towel on the tile floor and sauntered across the hallway in his altogether, half hoping she _would_ awaken, if only so he could embarrass her further. She didn’t though, and he scowled and banged his door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, my insufficient thanks to Katie F for getting her beta on even when there are significantly more important things in need of her attention, and also a warm welcome and grateful nod to allofmyheart, who has been so kind as to offer her mad Brit-picking skillz to lend an otherwise undeserved air of credibility to my happy little corner in the Sherlolly universe.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Molly woke with a start.

She couldn’t tell what it was that had awakened her, but the rush of adrenaline hit her like a train. She shot upright in bed with her sheet clutched to her chest, listening hard.

There was no light shining beneath her door, and the only noises she could hear were the regular nighttime sounds of London that drifted up to her window from the street below. Her alarm clock read two thirty-seven.

Several long moments passed as she sat frozen in the dark, her mind racing through any number of horrible possibilities. And then it dawned on her who the usual culprit was for strange noises going on in the flat during the wee small hours of the night.

 _Toby_ she thought, and gave a mental eye roll. She didn’t usually sleep with her door closed. If he were unable to nose the door open and curl up by her feet, he would make a nuisance of himself – knocking books off of the table in the sitting room and the like – to register his discontent. Wretched cat.

She sighed and swung her bare legs over the side of the bed, tugging her nightshirt down over her thighs as she padded barefoot across the room and stuck her head out the door.

The flat was dark and quiet. There was no sign of an irritable Toby, or a moody consulting detective, either, for that matter. The door to Deana’s old room was closed and the light was off. Sherlock must have finally taken himself off to bed. Good, he had looked like he needed the sleep.

She pulled her head back in and closed the door without letting it latch. That should be sufficient to let the silly old thing worm his way into her room if he so chose. She certainly wasn’t going to leave the door hanging wide open for Sherlock to take a quick nose around when he woke up in the morning.

She turned to go back to her bed, and then she heard the sound that had woken her. It was a deep and eerie moan like nothing she had ever heard before.

The hairs on the back of Molly’s neck stood on end. She would never mistake that voice for anyone else’s, but she could hardly reconcile it with the nearly inhuman sound that rose like the cry of a wounded animal.

It was Sherlock.

She was in the hallway, throwing open the door to the spare room before she even realized she was moving.

She didn’t have the presence of mind to reach for the light as she stumbled into the room, but the ambient glow of the street-lamps outside was enough to convince her that he was in no immediate danger, physically, at least.

He was dreaming.

He was on his back, the sheets tangled around his body as he thrashed miserably in his sleep. His chest gleamed white in the indistinct light from the window, but his face was a map of shadows, the hollows under his fluttering eyes were dark and bruised in the indistinct light.

“Sherlock?” she said, and chewed her lower lip. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she wake him? Surely he would want her to. The sounds that tore from his throat were guttural and tortured and made chills crawl down her spine. She couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of a nightmare it must take to terrify Sherlock Holmes.

Another gut-wrenching cry rent the room and Sherlock’s body convulsed as if in pain. Molly’s mind was made up for her.

“Sherlock,” she said, louder. She reached for him with unsteady hands, leaning over to touch his shoulder. “Sherlock, you have to wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Sher -”

There was a disorienting flurry of movement and then she was being jerked off her feet and thrown down, hard, on the bed. The dark shape of Sherlock Holmes loomed over her, his heavy body pinning her down, his forearm painful across her throat, forcing her down into the mattress.

His eyes were open, but there was no flicker of intelligence behind them.

“Sherlock!” she choked out as the pressure of his weight restricted her breathing. “Please!”

His face was twisted into an unfamiliar snarl, his eyes narrowed in violence.

Spots danced in front of Molly’s eyes, and she was struck by the sudden overwhelming certainty that Sherlock Holmes was going to kill her in his sleep. She shoved hard against his chest, but she might as well have been pushing against a stone wall. He was as solid and muscled as a jungle cat.

“Sherlock!” Her gasp was barely a whisper now. Her lungs were screaming for oxygen, and blackness began to creep into her vision. She bucked underneath him, trying desperately to shake him loose, but to no avail. Without thinking, she reached for him again. Her hands were pale in the gloom, floating up as if of their own accord, and then her fingers gently cupped his cheek, her palm cool against his heated skin. “It’s alright,” she wheezed, almost silently now.

Just as her vision clouded over, she saw a flash of confusion appear on Sherlock’s face. Suddenly the weight was gone and she was on the floor, coughing and wheezing, with tears streaming down her face.

“God, Molly!” The anguish in his voice was raw and desperate. “Are you alright? For God’s sake, say you’re alright!”

Then he was there on the floor next to her, gently prying her hands away from her throat, examining her with fierce concentration. He paused long enough to reach up and switch on the table lamp and she winced in the sudden glare. He took her face between his hands and turned her chin this way and that, checking for damage.

“I’m f-fine, Sherlock,” she managed to gasp. She put her hands over his, forcing him to stop and look at her. “I’m okay. It’s okay.” Her voice was raspy and her throat felt bruised and ragged, but, in her own medical opinion, she was going to be fine. No permanent harm done.

She wasn’t entirely sure the same could be said of Sherlock.

He was wild-eyed, his shaggy curls sweat-soaked and sticking to his pale brow. “I nearly - God, Molly. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His long fingers lightly touched the livid red marks on her throat as if he might try to brush them away. Then he pushed to his feet and stalked away to the other side of the room.

Molly noted with dazed bemusement that whatever he might have said in hopes of throwing her off balance, Sherlock slept in his boxers. She was embarrassed to have noticed at such a time, but then she supposed it beat thinking about how close she had come to being accidentally murdered in her own guest bedroom.

She could see his profile lit up by the street lights below as he stood at the window. He was frowning down at the world with a distant expression. She massaged her tender throat and wondered what things he must have seen in the past two years to make him have such violent dreams.

“What is your pulse?” he asked abruptly, without turning.

“My - “

He flashed an irritated look at her. “Your pulse! Your pulse! That thing you get when you press your fingers to your wrist and count. What is it?” He strode back across the room and dropped down on one knee next to her. “Never mind, I’ll do it. Hold still.”

Meekly, Molly sat on the floor, chewing her lip and wishing her nightshirt was longer. Sherlock’s head was bent over her wrist, his warm fingers pressing against her pulse point. She wondered if he remembered that he was almost entirely naked.

“One ten,” he said, when he finally released her. “A bit fast, but not excessive. That’s to be expected, of course.” He leaned forward until his nose was practically touching hers and looked into each of her eyes. “No signs of petechiae. You’re hoarse, but I doubt your vocal cords have been compromised. Can you swallow?”

“Sherlock - “

“Can. You. Swallow.” His eyes were narrowed, his expression stormy.

“ _Yes_. Now will you stop?” She pulled away from him, and stood awkwardly, trying to give the impression that she had no legs beneath the nightshirt that she had now decided was far too short for her. “Really, Sherlock, I’m fine. I _am_ a doctor, you know.”

“Pathologist,” he said, dismissively.

“Doctor,” she said, glowering back at him.

“Yes, well you will forgive me if I choose to be thorough, _Doctor_ Hooper.” He was on his feet again, moving in agitated circles.

Molly’s eyes widened when he turned away and she got a glimpse of the dressings on his back. The struggle had taken a toll on his slapdash self-doctoring, and red blooms were beginning to stain the snowy dressings. “Sherlock, what’s happened to your back?” She started towards him, her brow furrowed in concern.

He froze and turned, backing away from her. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” She gave him an incredulous look. “And your chest, too! Sherlock, you look like someone’s tried to end you with a cheese grater. What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said, still backing away. “It’s not important. Go away.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a long-suffering look. “I’m not going to go away. You’re hurt. Turn around and let me see, for heaven’s sake. You’re bleeding, I’m a doctor; it’s a match made in heaven.”

“Pathologist,” he said, sullenly, but he relented with a scowl and turned around so she could better examine his injuries.

Looking more closely, Molly saw that the damage wasn’t as bad as she had first thought. It was bad enough, though. His pale back and shoulders were streaked with irregularly-shaped patches of missing skin that were still a raw and angry red. Once she had removed the dressings, she found four more serious lacerations that were probably deep enough to need stitches. She didn’t bother to suggest it to him, however. They were ugly, but they looked clean. The drainage was clear, and there were no signs of infection. There was also no sign of granulation in any of the wounds yet, which meant that they couldn’t be more than a day or two old. They hadn’t even begun to form scabs. Sometime in the past couple of days, Sherlock had come entirely too close to getting himself killed. She swallowed heavily.

Without a word, she left him and went to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. She raised an eyebrow at the damp towel lying on the floor and the jumble of wrappers in the sink. Any other time she might have been annoyed by his casual disregard for her things, but tonight, she merely picked the towel up off the floor and hung it over the shower curtain with surprisingly steady hands.

 _This_ , she thought, was the hell of caring about Sherlock Holmes. You could never know when he would be too reckless or too focused, when the current case or sheer boredom would tilt him just far enough over the edge that he would fall over the other side. She wondered, as she often had over the past few years, whether it was worth it, whether _he_ was worth it. Was it even possible that he could be worth the pain and aggravation of keeping him in her life? She came to the same conclusion she always did when the thought crossed her mind - it didn’t matter whether he was or not. Her heart had its reasons, unreasonable as they were. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t a decision. It was an imperative. Her admiration for his mind, the sharp intellect behind the cutting wit and the occasional fleeting glimpse of vulnerability that showed through, despite his best efforts, made it impossible for her to not care for him.

With an odd sort of reverence, she laid a hand on the towel and breathed a word of thanks, grateful that he was still there to leave the mess. She reached for the first-aid kit that he had, naturally, left open on the floor and went back to her recalcitrant patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are at all impressed by the readability, properly applied grammar and punctuation, or appropriately used British vernacular, please know that all thanks belong to Katie F and allofmyheart. Bless their generous hearts as they so patiently slog through my nearly unreadable nonsense in order to red-pen it into submission. *I* enjoy reading this more after they get their talented hands on it first!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

“Were you ever planning on telling me what happened to you?” she asked, as she taped the last of the dressings in place. She had cleaned and dressed his wounds with quick, professional competence. Now that she was done, she felt completely justified in letting herself shake like a leaf.

“No,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder as if assessing her work. Satisfied, he shrugged. “There didn’t seem to be any point.”

“Well, you wouldn’t think so, would you?” she said, more sharply than she had intended. “No, sorry. I’m just - ” She shook her head and then pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this tired and wrung out - probably the last time she had got caught up in a case with Sherlock, come to think of it.

He looked up at her with puzzled eyes. “Why would you have wanted to know? You’re uncomfortable dealing with violent physical injury.” He gave her what she could only think of as a very Sherlock look. “Interesting that you exhibit no such squeamishness when the injured person is deceased.”

She drew herself up. She hated it when he looked at her with those calculating eyes, like she was a problem, not a person. “You think you’ve got me all worked out, do you?”

“Pain, Molly Hooper. You cannot stand to see another living thing in pain.”

It was even more infuriating when he was able to strip her down to her component parts like that, and, damn him, he was almost always right. She pressed her lips together and looked away with a shrug. “Pathologist.”

“Doctor,” he said, giving her a crooked smile over his shoulder.

She managed a brief smile of her own. “You’re wrong though. About me, I mean. Of course I would want to know if you got hurt, especially if there’s anything I can do to help. You’re my friend.”

“I am?” He twisted around in surprise. “Am I?”

She laughed out loud. “Well, I have helped you fake your death and then let you stay at my flat, and now I’m sitting here in my pyjamas at three in the morning, putting you back together again. So you’re definitely...something.”

She stood and handed him his shirt with her eyes averted. Now that she had finished patching him up, she was uncomfortable being in the narrow confines of the room with him in such a state of undress. She’d never been around Sherlock when he was anything other than posh and buttoned up. Somehow he seemed more undressed than any other man would have.

He slid his arms into the shirt, but left it hanging unbuttoned. Molly half expected him to wander out of the room while she tidied up, but instead he sat back down on the bed next to her with his elbows on his knees, his gaze distant. She busied herself with packing up the first aid kit, focusing on the little tasks to push past her weariness and the flat-out strangeness of the night.

“It was a bomb.”

The roll of bandages slipped out of Molly’s suddenly nerveless fingers and rolled across the floor. “A bomb.” She tried the word on, waiting for it to make sense.

“Yes. I’d say probably five pounds of C4 given the blast radius. I can’t say for sure, of course, as I thought it prudent to vacate the scene rather than stick around for the inevitable pantomime of absurdity that passes for a police investigation in that benighted region of Turkmenistan.”

She let out a shaky breath. “A bomb.”

“I just said so, yes.” She might have imagined the flicker of impatience that crossed his face, but she doubted it.

“Was it, I don’t know, ‘aimed’ at you?” She winced inwardly. It was such an odd question to have to ask. But really, this whole conversation was one that could only take place in the middle of the night when all parties involved were sleep deprived.

“Rather hard to aim a bomb, but I take your meaning. Yes, I believe it was.”

“So there are still people from Jim - I mean, Moriarty’s network that are trying to kill you?” Her chest felt tight. She had never felt any reason to fear ‘Jim from IT’, but the simple fact that she had not been afraid of him frightened her in and of itself.

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at her. “Oh, is that what concerns you?” He shook his head. “No, this was someone else altogether. Babayev was one of Moriarty’s...I suppose you’d call him ‘competitors’. He became aware of my activities there at the end and was probably concerned that I would turn my attentions to his organization next.” He shrugged. “The bombing was misguided and unnecessary. I had no interest in him or his people.”

“Oh.“ Molly blinked at his easy disregard. “So, aren’t you, I don’t know, worried that he might find you again, maybe? Here? In London?”

“What? Oh, no, not at all.” Sherlock flipped a hand dismissively. “Babayev has never heard of Sherlock Holmes. He knew me only as Joseph Bell of Scotland. I took pains to ensure that no one would be able to make the connection between myself and that alias. He’d have no reason to come looking for me here. While I have no doubt that he intended for me to die in the bombing, I imagine he was happy to settle for chasing me out of town, which, as far as he knows, is exactly what he did.”

“I see.” She really didn’t. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t get blown up...um, worse.”

She rescued the roll of bandages from the floor and slowly wound the tail end of it back into a neat circle. Her thoughts had wandered nearly three thousand miles away, dwelling irresistibly on what hadn’t happened, but could have; imagining a scenario where Sherlock Holmes hadn’t moved quite as quickly as he had needed to.

“How is your throat?” He asked, very carefully not looking at her. She recognized this as Sherlock’s way of not so subtly letting her know that he had finished with this particular line of conversation. No amount of persistence on her part would compel him to share anything else unless he decided he wanted to.

“Oh, it’s fine. Well, no, I mean, it’s not _fine_ , but it will be - uh, fine that is… It’s really okay, Sherlock.” And it was. It was sore, and there were going to be some truly spectacular bruises that she didn’t relish trying to explain away, but other than that, there was no real damage done.

He was frowning, but not at her. For a long moment they sat side by side on the bed in silence, watching the occasional flare of car headlights going by on the road below. It was an odd comfort to see proof that they were not the only two souls awake in the city.

It was nearly four in the morning. Molly stifled a yawn and started to think about going back to bed. It was alright for Sherlock, who had always seemed able to replace the need for sleep with caffeine, but the rest of the human population, herself included, actually required rest. At least tomorrow was Saturday. A lie-in would definitely be in order after a night like this.

“It’s Moriarty,” he said suddenly. “It’s always Moriarty.”

“What?” She couldn’t help the surge of adrenaline that shot through her veins like an electrical current even though she knew, better than anyone, that James Moriarty was really, well and truly dead. She’d sat in on the post-mortem herself, just to be sure. For Sherlock’s sake.

“He is dead, but I cannot exorcise him from my mind.” His tone was savage. He pressed his two fingers hard to the side of his head, like a gun. “He is still up here, even now.”

“Oh,” she said as the meaning of his words clicked into place. “Your, uh - the dream you were having.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “Two years ago, I watched James Moriarty put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. I watched him die, and yet, he outlived me. It is far too poetic an epigram to say that he ‘haunts’ me, but it’s not entirely inaccurate either.” His face was pale and haggard. Emotional disclosure was supposed to be healthy, beneficial even. It didn’t seem to have quite the same effect on Sherlock. No wonder he opened himself up so rarely.

“It’s just a dream.”

“No.” His voice was a low snarl. “It is not just a dream. It is a defeat. Dreams are the subconscious representation of our conscious state; that is all. Dreams do not control _me_. I am the master of my own thoughts. _I_ choose their flow and direction, anything else would be intolerable.” His brow furrowed as if with pain. “And yet the evidence is before you, Sherlock Holmes, brought to his knees - to physical violence - _by a nightmare_.”

She had never heard him sound so bitter. Spurred as much by the surreal, dreamlike feeling of the hour as by uncharacteristic boldness, Molly turned, and, kneeling on the bed, took Sherlock’s face gently between her hands. He started in surprise, but didn’t pull away. She took a breath and regarded him seriously. “James Moriarty is dead. And tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes is coming back to life. It is _just_ a dream. You won.”

Surprise faded slowly from his expression and was replaced gradually by something altogether different. A dark intensity settled over his features, and his eyes glittered in a way that made her feel rather like a mouse must when it is cornered by a cat.

Her eyes widened and she dropped her hands with a gasp just as he lunged for her. His fingers threaded into her hair and his lips were on hers, capturing them in a hungry kiss.

As many times as Molly had imagined what it must be like to kiss Sherlock Holmes, she had managed to get it wrong every single time. She had expected him to be awkward and untried. When would he have ever had the chance to practice, for goodness sake? But then it had never occurred to her that, even in something as emotionally driven as physical intimacy, observation and deduction could be useful tools when properly applied.

Sherlock knew how to properly apply them.

His hands cradled her head, changing angles as he deepened the kiss, bearing her backwards and lowering her gently to the bed. His lips were soft and warm, and she responded without thought, kissing him back, opening under the insistent pressure of his tongue and moaning into his mouth as he explored her with the same focused attention he showed to everything else.

His lips never left hers as he settled over her, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. She met his tongue with her own and his hand tightened, almost painfully, in her hair. She felt more than heard the low, satisfied rumble in his chest, like the purr of a leopard. He tugged on her hair, forcing her to tilt her head back and then his lips were gone, trailing down the column of her throat, his breath hot and moist on her sensitive skin. She gasped and realized dazedly that she had nearly forgotten to breathe.

Well of _course_ Sherlock Holmes would kiss like a bloody house on fire.

He did something delightful with his lips just at the curve of her neck, and she gasped again and reached for him, tangling her hands in the back of his hair, desperate to feel his curls between her fingers and hoping he would stay put and do whatever that was again. He did, and she sighed, turning her head to give him better access. Then he was over her once more, his weight bearing her down into the mattress, the hard ridge of his erection pressing into the tender skin of her inner thigh.

Molly Hooper was passive in many and varied aspects of her life, but sex was not one of them. She had never seen the point in the ‘lie back and think of England’ philosophy of sexual conduct and refused to subscribe to it on moral grounds. None of the men she had ever been with before - few though they had been - had ever seemed to care how their relative level of enthusiasm was being judged by her, and she didn’t see why she should have to care if they didn’t. She enjoyed sex. She wasn’t going to pretend otherwise on the rare occasions when she actually got to have it. She reasoned somewhat coherently that Sherlock would know if she were holding back, anyway, so why bother?   

She caught his face in her hands, bringing him down so she could taste his lips, outlining them with her tongue before she tilted her head and kissed him again, licking inside his mouth until he moaned, pushing himself hard against the damp ‘v’ at the apex of her thighs. Sparks lit up behind her eyelids and she responded in kind, pressing her hips upwards and reveling in the hiss of indrawn breath that she was rewarded with.

Reaching down to where their bare legs were tangled together, Sherlock ran his free hand up the back of her leg, skating across her tingling skin and rucking up her nightshirt as he went. He drew her knee up to his waist to better position himself against her sex, and then cupped her backside and pulled her close.

“Oh!” Molly gasped at the delicious friction as he ground himself gently against her core. There was nothing between them now but the thin fabric of her knickers and his own boxer shorts.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. His face was slack with desire, his lips parted; his pupils were dilated huge and black with only the barest trace of colour around the edges. This was the most unfocused and out of control she had ever seen him. This was Sherlock Holmes raw and untethered. _And broken and hurting_ , she added mentally.

She realized with a sudden pang and complete certainty that if this went on, if they continued down this path and crossed the final line - if they had sex tonight - Sherlock would never forgive her. This was not him; this wasn’t the calm, controlled, emotionally contained man that he had been when he left, nor, she was positive, the one that he wanted to be again. The realization made her sad, but also relieved. She knew it meant that she had to be strong enough for the both of them, and she could do that. There was no way she could do it for just herself. She was too selfish, had wanted this for too long. But she could do it for him.

In the most extraordinary display of perfect timing she had ever witnessed, Toby chose this exact moment to investigate the unusual, middle of the night activity, by leaping up onto the bed right next to Molly’s face.

Sherlock jerked back and Molly let out a squeak and rolled sideways, breaking free of his embrace and effectively rolling off the bed.

“Toby!” she cried in welcome exasperation.

Toby was patently unconcerned. He padded the length of the bed before jumping silently back to the ground. It didn’t take a minute for him to decide that the company was lacking. Flicking his tail in dismissal, he wandered back through the open bedroom door.

She stood halfway across the room now from a terribly disheveled, and completely stunning, Sherlock Holmes. God, but he was beautiful. Even with the cuts and bruises marring his porcelain skin, or perhaps especially because of them, he looked like something that would have been carved into a Roman temple. He was mouthwatering.

And here, in the other corner, stood mousey Molly Hooper in her faded pink night shirt - the one with the splodgy stain on the front. She knew her lips would be red and swollen from kissing and her hair was like a haystack. The contrast in her head was so stark as to be painful.

They were both breathing heavily, their skin flushed, and Molly found it absolutely and completely mortifying.

He was eyeing her, weighing her like a piece of evidence again. His eyes were sparkling with some thought that he didn’t seem compelled to share with her right now.

She would do this for him, she would give him back to himself unaltered, but it was like tearing something important loose from inside her chest to walk away right now.

She didn’t need to say a word. All she had to do was cross the room - she could do it in three steps, and reach for him - she could all but feel her fingers thread through his hair, pull him down to her - lips pressed hard against his -

“I suppose I should probably be getting back to bed,” she said, bobbing her head and giving him that inane half-smile that she hated on herself.

He nodded once, and Molly was almost certain that he was knew what she was doing and that she was doing it for him. At least, she hoped so. She hoped he understood, because if he didn’t, if he thought she was rejecting him -

“Goodnight, Molly.” His voice was completely unreadable, his expression as shuttered and inscrutable as it ever was. He turned away, his attention already back on the dark rectangle of the window.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” she said, and before she could change her mind, she escaped, leaving him standing there as he watched London pass by on the streets below.

When she woke in the morning, he was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks to Katie F and allofmyheart for their kind and gentle guidance in regards to...well, pretty much every aspect of this story. They keep it readable and in character and I couldn't do it without them! Bless!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sherlock Holmes lived for deviation.  Normal was boring.  Normal was a predictable, brainless factory setting that left no room for thought or meaningful action.  He needed distraction, diversion, change, alteration - it was the engagement of the mind that he craved, even more than his next breath of air.  The focus of an interesting case, directed investigation, observation, deduction - they absorbed his attention and drowned out the incessant noise of his overactive mind.  

He had been labeled at a young age.  ‘Genius’, ‘brilliant’, ‘gifted’.  Gifted.  Yes, that was his favorite - ‘gifted’, as though he’d been handed a package wrapped in shiny paper with a bow attached.  It was so much a misnomer as to be laughable.  The connotation seemed so mildly pleasant.  Who wouldn’t want their child to be ‘gifted’?  It spoke of intelligence and promise, a bright future for the eager learner.  Any parent would be p _roud_.

What they didn’t include in the brochure was the torment - the endless, ceaseless, maddening roar of an underutilized brain.  Without absorption, his mind was a tidal wave of crushing, unstoppable thoughts that he could not turn off.  Unless he was focused, unless his brain was actively engaged on a problem, he was trapped in a mind that raged like an electrical storm.  Boredom was a state akin to insanity.

He wasn’t bored, not now, but the problem that occupied his tired mind was Molly.

He left her flat shortly after she bolted out of his room like a skittish colt.  There was no chance of further sleep that night.  He wouldn’t risk another round of nightmares within her hearing, even if the fatigue did still weigh him down like a stone.  He’d waited restlessly in the pastel atrocity that was her guest room until he was assured by the even cadence of her breathing that she had fallen back to sleep, and then, to put it succinctly, he scarpered. 

He wasn’t actually running away.  He wasn’t.  He was simply avoiding the unpleasant emotional aftermath of a purely physiological, autonomic reaction.  The unexpected surge of sexual arousal was a perfectly normal response in the wake of a fear stressor, especially in consideration of his body’s protracted state of exhaustion.  If it wasn’t his usual reaction in the same set of circumstances - well, that could be attributed to any number of other factors.  There was a fair chance that Molly was somewhere significant in her menstrual cycle that affected her pheromonal output.  Possibly he had been existing on such a low rung of the hierarchy of needs for so long that his body had adjusted to the primal conditions he had been forced to endure for the past two years.

It was unimportant, at any rate.  There had been no actual coitus.  A brief round of heavy petting was intellectually meaningless.  It was nothing more than a base and primal instinct, unfortunately acted upon.  He was mildly chagrined that he’d practically leapt on the poor girl.  Molly was going to be embarrassed by the whole ordeal, which would be tiresome, but he doubted he would have much call to see her for at least the next few weeks.  Perhaps, in that amount of time, she would get over it.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and forced the image of her reddened lips and sleep-tousled hair out of his head.  He refused to wonder why it took more effort than it should have.

London was a city that never slept.  It was one of the many things about it that so intrigued him -   the constant frenetic energy, like the firing synapses of the human brain.  In the daylight it was all bright chaos - movement, noise, action and reaction.  Come nightfall, it was tempered, but still active, moving at a more sedate pace, but never completely quiet.  And it was certainly capable of conjuring a nightmare or two every now and again.  

Sherlock walked for miles.  He might have said that he walked aimlessly, but he was standing across from 221 Baker Street exactly one hour and fifteen minutes after he left Molly’s apartment, precisely the amount of time he had known it would take him to get there.

It was nearly six o’clock in the morning.  The sun had not yet begun to stage its grand entrance on the sleeping city, but it wasn’t far off, either.  There was an expectant feel in the air, as though the world had finally lost patience with the long stretch of night and was anxiously awaiting the coming of the new day.

Traffic began to pick up, and Sherlock gradually stopped earning wary glances from passers-by as his presence on the street became a less notable oddity.  The commuters for whom Saturday  morning meant nothing more than another weekend on the job began to peek out of their burrows, coffee mugs in hand as they made their bleary way to fortunately parked cars or, more frequently, the Tube station at the end of the street.

The lights in John’s old room flared to life at exactly five fifty-seven.  Clearly, he hadn’t bothered to be precise the last time he had reset the time on his alarm clock.

A shadow passed between the light source and the window, but it was far too slim to be John.  The lady friend, then - whatever her name was.  He thought that Molly must have said, but he hadn’t bothered to record the information.  He considered the possibility that he might have to actually learn this one.  John must be serious about her if he was having her spend the night at the flat on a work night.

Sherlock had obtained a rundown of all of John Hamish Watson’s current characteristics thanks to the meticulous work of his homeless network.  His off-the-grid computer hacker, ‘Zee’, who styled himself a revolutionary but was really no more than a lazy non-conformist who flaunted non-payment of his licensing fee like a badge of defiance, had included everything up to and including his current employment statistics, financial situation and standing laundry order.  The scruffy computer programmer was, if nothing else, thorough.

In the wake of his friend’s apparent suicide, John’s therapist had recommended, among other things, that he take a job he could look upon as meaningful, that he find something significant and noteworthy to occupy his time and his thoughts.  More than anything, she felt that John need to avoid the easy trap of inactivity.  It had taken him several weeks to get around to making the effort, but once he had, he had almost immediately been offered a part-time commission with Defence Medical Services for returning war veterans.

It sounded positively ghastly.  And boring.  John must be out of his mind with the tedium of so saccharine a daily routine.  He had three days a week in a gloomy, NHS-funded examination cubicle with green painted breeze-block walls, a desultory staff and bad fluorescent lighting.  It hardly bore thinking about.

Upstairs at 221B, the curtain twitched and then was pulled to the side altogether.  And then, for the first time in more than two years, Sherlock clapped eyes on the best friend he had ever known.

John stood in the window holding a mug, wearing a dark blue dressing gown and sporting the most god-awful moustache Sherlock had ever had the misfortune to encounter.  He frowned.  Zee had not seen fit to mention the moustache.  A severe oversight on his part.

He was not even remotely concerned that John might see him before he was prepared for the confrontation.  People, he had observed, would not see what they did not expect to see.  John was cleverer than many, but not exactly an exceptional mind.  Expectation gave shape to perception, and John could hardly expect to see his deceased former flat-mate loitering on the pavement across the way.  Sherlock could have held up a sign with John’s name on it in fairy lights and the good doctor would, most likely, have looked straight past him.

A blonde-haired woman joined his friend in front of the window and John’s entire face lit up like a Christmas tree.  Sherlock arched an eyebrow and revised his previous assessment.  He was definitely going to have to learn the name of this one.  She was here for the duration.  John was smitten.  

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the added complication this would present to his return.

He had been away, but now he was back.  The best thing would be for everything to return to what it had once been.  Oh, there would be an adjustment period, he knew; he wasn’t stupid.  He would have to give John time to forgive him for his deception, but once that was out of the way, there was no reason why things at 221B shouldn’t be the same as they had been before Moriarty.  He would get the website buffed up and take a few private cases until he could wrangle his way back into Lestrade’s good graces, but after that it would be he and John, out on the battlefield, together once more.

Within half an hour, John and his moustache left the flat and headed for the Tube station along with the blonde woman.  At the corner, they paused to say goodbye, kissing for an indecorous amount of time before parting and going their separate ways.  John continued on towards the station and the woman got into a black VW Scirocco.  Ah, another doctor then.  Well, at least she and John had something to talk about.

Sherlock slipped through the front door of the building as quickly and easily as if he had been using his old key in the lock.  He slipped his lock-picking tools back into the inner pocket of his coat with a satisfied smile.  

The scent of the stairwell evoked a wave of memories, and he almost reeled under the weight of them.  He blinked at the unexpected bout of nostalgia.  It was Osmo floor wax and Citra Clean mixed with the lingering notes of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent coffee and the biscuits she, no doubt, still kept on hand for John and his lady doctor.  

221C, it would seem, had finally been rented in his absence, and by a couple, if the extra sets of scuff marks on the floors were anything to go by.  Time had passed, changes were inevitable.  
  
His hand ghosted lightly over the railing as he made his way up the steps to his old flat.  He felt as if he had an odd weight in his chest.  It was something like the quiet reverence of a church - an almost spiritual feeling of coming home.  Had he missed this?  He hadn’t thought about it much during the course of his travels, what would the point have been? But now, he wondered - was this sentiment?

He hesitated briefly before breaking into the flat.  It wasn’t that he was conflicted about the morality behind it.  It was still his flat, was it not?  He hadn’t _actually_  died, so there was no reason for his name to be taken off the rental agreement, was there?  He simply stopped to consider for a moment that John, or perhaps his woman, may have taken it into their heads to change things around.  That wouldn’t do. 

He opened the door.

Coming home felt like - well, coming home.  A sense of great relief settled over him, and a smile spread slowly across his face.  
  
Some things had changed, but in essence, all was as it had once been - or at least as it had once been on those occasions immediately after Mrs. Hudson had taken it into her head to tidy up after him.  
  
The kitchen was clean - as clean as a bachelor’s kitchen needed to be, at any rate, considering it was primarily used to make tea and sandwiches.  There were no signs of his old lab equipment.  Not that he had expected it to still be there, but he pursed his lips and hoped John had at least kept the inverted trinocular fluorescence phase contrast microscope.  Those were difficult to come by and not inexpensive.  
  
The sitting room had been tidied to a level that suggested either Mrs. Hudson or the lady doctor had had a hand in it.  Or perhaps John was still working hard on impressing his girlfriend.  Of course, if that were the case, surely he wouldn’t be wearing a great fuzzy caterpillar across his top lip.  Really, someone was going to have to have a word with him about that.

The door to Sherlock’s old room was closed.  He narrowed his eyes at it, wondering what the chances were of John having left it as it was, a shrine of sorts to his late friend’s memory.  The doctor had a sentimental streak the size of the Thames, true, but he was practical as well.  
  
He crossed the lounge and pushed the door open and scowled.  Not sentimental enough, apparently.  Practicality had won out in spades.  At least his old furniture was still there, beneath all the rubbish.  What on earth did a DMS physician need with this many boxes of paperwork?

Irritably he toed the lid off of one of the boxes and pulled a file out of it at random, not caring if he messed up the order.  
  
He had expected some kind of medical records and frowned when he realized it was photostats of witness statements from a closed criminal investigation.  The name at the top was Poppy Everhard, and the investigating officer listed was Sergeant G. Lestrade.   
  
Sherlock’s mind spun through his memories until he found the right one.  This was a case he had worked on long before meeting John Watson.  It had been a strange death that had baffled the police, who hadn’t been able to decide at the time whether to call it a murder, a suicide or natural causes.  Ultimately, it had been an issue of a leaky boiler, an electrical short and a curious cat with an extremely unlucky owner.  He couldn’t imagine the significance of the case or why it should be in sitting here in a box in his old bedroom.

He jammed the file haphazardly back into the original box and snatched out another one.  Copies of the evidence logs for the Hydewell-Broback murder investigation - another of his closed cases.  Now, he began pulling folders at random: the Bulwalter kidnapping, Eunomy Cresswell’s missing Arabian, the forgery of Matthias Fairchild’s will, the Dunham murder-suicide with the added dash of industrial espionage, Peter Ricoletti and the kidnap of the banker from Chelsea - all his old cases, all stuffed in boxes lying about his old room.  

A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he fairly leapt across the room to where a new laptop sat on the desk with its green power indicator light glowing.  He pulled the main screen up, pleased to see John hadn’t bothered to password protect this one; he was far too impatient to spend the extra minute sussing out whatever bit of cleverness John would have thought to use.  He dug into the doctor’s recent documents, but didn’t have to go far.  The last file accessed had been at ten o’clock the previous evening and was entitled simply ‘Sherlock’.

An odd feeling that he would not have been able to name rose up in Sherlock as he looked at the little white rectangle glowing there on the screen.  His chest felt tight and the dust he had kicked up while he was rifling through the boxes suddenly started bothering his sinuses.  He coughed and cleared his throat, blinking hard.  
  
He knew what he was going to see before he positioned the cursor over the icon, but it still affected him like an out-of-control lorry to the solar plexus when he opened the file.

Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective, by John H. Watson.  
  
He swallowed with difficulty and scrolled quickly through the pages without pausing to read more than a sentence or two here or there.  When he got to the end of the document - over a hundred and twenty pages at present - he calmly closed out of it and then dropped into the chair as though the strength had gone out of him entirely.

He steepled his fingers together under his chin and sat perfectly still for a long time.  A line from a poem he had read once back in uni came to mind.  It was a mere slip of poetry, and he couldn’t have said on pain of death who had written it, but, oddly, he was thankful that he had not deleted it.  It seemed… necessary, somehow, to have words for this.   
  
Without realizing he was doing it, he spoke softly into the quiet room.  “And say my glory was I had such friends.”

A short while later, Sherlock let himself out of the flat, locking it firmly behind him.  He could hear the distant sound of Mrs. Hudson humming cheerfully in her flat below.  The scent of cinnamon drifted up the stairwell.  His lips curled into a grin.  
  
He rapped on Mrs. Hudson’s door three times and stood straight with his hands clasped behind his back.   
  
“Coming.” Her singsong voice called out.  “Just a tick.”  
  
He could picture her moving about her kitchen, rearranging baking sheets, practicing her own bit of chemistry with flour and sugar and eggs.  He hoped there were spice biscuits.  Those were his favourite.  
  
The door swung open.

“Hullo, Mrs. Hudson,” he said with a bright smile that turned, at once, to chagrin as his landlady, without any change of expression, slid slowly to the floor in a dead faint.  “Oh, um, Mrs. Hudson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock may not remember who wrote the poem that he quotes, but I do! The line comes from William Butler Yeats poem 'The Municipal Gallery Revisited'.
> 
> This is one of my favorite chapters to date. I am not a 'JohnLock' shipper by any stretch of the imagination, but the friendship between John and Sherlock is, in my opinion, of a far more epic and grand scale than any mere romantic relationship could ever be. Two men who love each other unabashedly without the need for romantic involvement to validate that love is, in all honesty, far more meaningful to me than all the Sherlolly in the universe, and THAT is saying something!
> 
> And the usual thanks and unworthy bows to my lovely betas, Katie F and allofmyheart, for keeping me true to the characters as well as the sentence structure. I owe you guys my first born (seriously, he's driving me crazy. Who wants him first?).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

“Hullo, Mr. Patel,” Molly said cheerfully as she wiggled her fingers into a clean pair of latex gloves.  “Let’s get in there and see what we’ve got, shall we?”  She saw Howard and Sanjay exchange glances out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored them.  So what if she liked to talk to the bodies while she prepped for their post-mortems?  It wasn’t as if she carried on while she was running the voice recorder or anything.  

She was well aware of all the sniggers and whispers about ‘Morbid Molly’ that the technologists and orderlies thought were so terribly clever, but she didn’t care.  She vastly preferred the quiet company of the cadavers over most of the hospital staff anyway.  At minimum, the bodies were much less judgmental.

She wasn’t morbid, though, not really.  She wasn’t fascinated by death or even overly interested in it; she simply didn’t _mind_  it.  Once the body of the deceased made it onto her table, life and death were no longer an issue.  When the physician’s job ended and hers began, it was just a matter of facts that needed recording and puzzles that needed solving.  Those things interested her.  They were what made her good at her job.

She didn’t anticipate much of a puzzle with poor Mr. Patel today, though.  He had been an overweight, cigarette-smoking, fifty-two year old diabetic with a sedentary day job.  She wasn’t usually much of a betting woman, but she might have been willing to put a few quid on the suspected myocardial infarction due to atheromatous plaque rupture.

She put the Stryker saw on the tray next to her face shield and then dived back into the instruments cupboard for an array of scalpels and scissors and a Hagedorn needle for suturing Mr. Patel back up in time for his viewing.

The prep work was technically Sanjay’s job, but the pathology technologist was busy helping Howard with his cultures, and anyway, she didn’t mind doing it herself.  The method and ritual of it was calming, and it distracted her from thinking of anything beyond the job in front of her.

Distraction was good, necessary in fact.  For the past five days Molly had done anything and everything she could think of to distract herself from playing back over that catastrophic night with Sherlock.  He had had a nightmare, she had patched up his wounds, he had kissed her until her toes curled, and then she had walked away.  Frankly, she still couldn’t quite believe that it had happened.  She hadn’t seen or heard from him since. 

His absence, in itself, wasn’t so unusual.  His Bart’s invasions had never adhered to any particular schedule.  If he needed the lab equipment or, occasionally, a body, he would simply burst through the doors with his coat billowing out behind him, shouting things like, ‘Molly!  I need to run a bacterial analysis on the Porter skin samples.  Get me the slides, and do be quick about it!’  Although, to be fair, in the months after he and John had become flatmates, he would occasionally remember to throw a ‘please’ in there somewhere.

On the positive side of things, her flat had never been so neat and orderly.  She had scrubbed every nook and cranny to within an inch of its life, cleaned and organized her cupboards, colour coordinated her closet and dusted and alphabetized all of her bookshelves.  She was running out of distractions.

She sighed and tried once again to put the whole thing out of her head.  “Alright then, Mr. Patel,” she said aloud, slipping on her splatter guard and selecting a scalpel.  “This won’t hurt a bit.”

Four hours later, Molly was at her desk filling out the last of her autopsy paperwork - cause of death deemed myocardial infarction due to atheromatous plaque rupture - when Sherlock burst into the morgue with his coat billowing behind him, and it was as though the past two years had never happened.

“Molly, I need to see the John Doe that came in this afternoon.”  He hesitated for a split second and then went on impatiently.  “In your own time.”

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said.  She pressed her lips together and focused very hard on her signature.

“Oh, yes, of course.  Hello, Molly.  Oh, and please.”

She looked up at him then and realized two things: one, that it had been a monumentally silly waste of time for her to worry about their little lapse the other night - Sherlock had clearly forgotten about it already, and two, that someone, and she had a fair idea of who it might have been, had given the lately returned consulting detective one hell of a black eye a few days ago. 

“That looks like it must have hurt.”

“What?”  He wrinkled his brow at her and then winced.  “Ah, yes, that.”  He gently touched the skin around his bruised eye.  “John’s getting married,” he said as if by way of explanation. 

“And he gets extra punchy when he’s engaged, does he?”  She tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the tinge of amusement out of her voice, and he gave her a withering look.

“Apparently,” he dragged the word out, “Doctor Watson has taken up boxing in my absence.”

She nodded.  “Oh, right.  I remember him mentioning.  I think his therapist recommended it.  Good exercise, stress relief, that sort of thing.”

“Zee is _useless_ ,” he muttered with a scowl.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.  Now about that body?”

Molly sifted through the files on her desk.  “The only other body I have in just now is on hold for the Yard -”

“Yes, yes, that one.”

She pressed her lips together.  “Sorry, Sherlock.  You know I can’t let you look at it before Lestrade gets here.” 

Sherlock had been looking about the room as though she might have hidden the body somewhere other than in the drawer where it belonged.  He spun around to look at her, “Lestrade?  Is it his case?”

“Apparently.”

“Oh, good!  Wonderful!  That’s excellent news!”  Sherlock clapped his hands together and and turned on his heel, suddenly filled with restless excitement.  “This is perfect.  He isn’t nearly as stupid as the rest of those idiots.”

“You think they’ll let you back in straight away?”  She bit her lip.  “I don’t know, Sherlock, the Superintendent was none too happy with you before you… went away.”  
  
Sherlock snorted.  "London has been without its only consulting detective for two years, and the Yard’s solve rate has been nothing short of abysmal in that time.  I’m sure the two are completely unrelated.”

Molly had to smile. Whatever else might have happened to him during his absence, his ego had not suffered any long-lasting damage.  Grating as that unflappable self-confidence could be when you were the one on the opposite end of it, she was still glad that it hadn’t been lost.  Sherlock wouldn’t be Sherlock without it.

She felt herself relax a bit; all the embarrassed tension of the past few days drained out of her.  All that worrying over how things would be between them had been completely unnecessary.  She should have known better.  Sherlock didn’t do emotional entanglements or - or _sex_.  He brushed past things he didn’t want to, or possibly couldn’t, cope with, and simply pretended that they weren’t there at all.  It was reassuring, comforting even, to know that he could just look past that - whatever that was - the other night.  It wouldn’t affect their friendship, or relationship...or whatever it was that they had.  She couldn’t understand why she still felt an odd pressure in her chest or why it felt strangely like disappointment.

She glanced at him standing by her desk, dressed in unrelenting black, his hair still in desperate need of a trim with fading purple and blue smudges around his right eye.  And then suddenly he was on top of her, his hot mouth pressed hard against her throat, her fingers threading through his hair, his breath erratic against her skin.

“Molly?”

She jumped and looked up at Sherlock as he frowned down at her from the other side of the desk.

“You’ve just turned completely pink, did you know that?  I asked when you were expecting Lestrade”

“Oh, um - now, actually.  Oh, look, there he is.”  She shoved her chair back so quickly it fell over.  “Hello, Detective Inspector!” she said with what, she realized belatedly, probably seemed like manic enthusiasm.  Nevertheless, she was ridiculously thankful to see him.  She made a mental note to have a very long, very serious talk with her subconscious later.

“Well, if it isn’t the late, great Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade said with his usual dry aplomb as he sauntered into the room.  “Good of you to drop us a line there, mate.”

“Hello, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, inclining his head with wry formality.  “I would apologize for not having kept in touch, but if you’ll recall, the last time I saw you, you were trying very hard to arrest me.”

Lestrade shrugged.  “That was just a little misunderstanding though, wasn't it?  Nothing that would drive a man to fake his own death or anything.”  He raised an eyebrow.

“I had some things that needed taking care of.” 

“Well, yeah, obviously.  That’s just what I thought it was.”  The Detective Inspector nodded and crossed his arms.  “Everything work out all right?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock said simply. 

“Good show, then,” Lestrade said, somehow managing to sound impressed, but only ironically.  Then he chuckled.  “Welcome back, Sherlock.  I am glad you’re not dead, for the record.  Things haven’t been the same.  Hell, I haven’t had the desire to hit anyone in ages.”  He extended a hand.

Sherlock eyed it briefly and then flicked a glance at the detective inspector’s face.  Presumably finding what he was looking for there, he reached out and grasped the proffered hand and shook it, nodding.

Molly let out a breath and only then realized she had been holding it.  She blinked and looked to Lestrade.  “Are you ready to see the body now?”

“Yeah,” He said then he turned back to Sherlock.  “Fair warning, Sherlock - it’s come down from on high that I’m not to let you officially consult on cases anymore.”  
  
“Against the rules now, is it, Detective Inspector?”

“Yeah, a bit.”  Lestrade shifted on his feet.  “Look, I don’t want to be an arse, but I got busted back down to sergeant for six months for letting you help out before.  I’ve only just got my old desk back.”

“That must have been very difficult for you, DI Lestrade,” Sherlock bit off coldly.  He looked as though he wished he could take back the handshake.

“Don’t be such a git,” Lestrade said without heat.  He rubbed a hand across his forehead with a sigh.  “You know as well as I do that we could use your help - that we _need_  your help - but even with your name cleared, the Chief Superintendent’s not a big fan of yours.”

“John’s the one that levelled him,” Sherlock said.

“Well, he’s not such a big fan of his either, is he?  But the good doctor’s not the one here looking to start poking around at our corpses.”  Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and then threw his hand out when Sherlock tried to interject again.  “Enough, alright?  I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to it.  I can’t let you officially consult on our cases anymore, full stop.”

Sherlock’s curled his lip in displeasure.

“Now, if you would unofficially stand over there,” Lestrade went on, gesturing to the space on the far side of the drawer Molly was poised to pull out.  “Our helpful pathologist here can tell us all about the John Doe that was found lying on top of the Shard this morning with nearly every bone in his body broken.”  He gave Sherlock a meaningful look.  “As a gentle reminder for those of us who have a tendency to forget minor details - you are in no way, shape or form _officially_  permitted to involve yourself in this case at this time.”

Sherlock hesitated, a flicker of consternation crossing his features, and then he nodded silently and positioned himself across the tray from Lestrade.

Entirely confused by what she had just witnessed, Molly flicked a glance at each of the men and then, with a mental shrug, hauled the drawer open.

“Okay, so this is our John Doe.  He was found in the early hours of this morning on the seventy-fourth floor of the Shard - that’s the second level of the spire - by a couple of maintenance workers who were doing a routine check.  I’d put time of death at least thirty-six hours before that though.  There are multiple signs of trauma - a lot of broken bones - but based on the lack of any inflammation of the tissue fibres, I’m confident that those injuries were all sustained post-mortem.”

“So do we know what killed him?”  Lestrade asked.

“Asphyxiation due to drowning,” Molly said, gratified by the startled expression on both of the men’s faces.

“Drowning?” Lestrade said.  “Are you sure?”

“She is a certified and licensed pathologist.” Sherlock interjected looking down at the body in rapt fascination.  She could tell he was itching to do an examination of his own.  “Let’s take it as read that she knows how to tell the difference, shall we?”

Lestrade looked baffled.  “He was found on a roof more than two-hundred and fifty metres in the air in the middle of London.  What in heaven’s name did he drown in?”

“Did they find climbing equipment at the scene?” Sherlock asked.  He had already shifted into clinical mode and was leaning as far over the body as he could without falling on it.

“No,” Lestrade replied.  He pulled out his notebook and started flipping through the pages.  “Nothing found near the body, no I.D., no equipment, nothing.”

“Tell them to go back and look for it, probably somewhere higher up inside the spire.”

“Climbing equipment?”  The inspector stopped flipping and looked up.  “What’re you thinking? Unofficially, of course.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him.  “Of course,” he said mildly, cutting a sideways glance at Lestrade over the body.  “Look at his hands.”  Sherlock’s pale fingers traced the air above the dead man’s cold ones.  “Distinctive scarring of the knuckles and fingers caused by pressure burns - acrylic rope, clearly - some of them quite old.  He’s been a climber for a long time - fifteen years or more based on the age of those scars.  Generalized swelling around the knuckles as well as evidence of long-term use of cortisone shots in the joints.  He’s experienced regular and severe trauma to the joints in his hands.”  He moved up to the shoulder and indicated a neat line of indented flesh.  “Surgical scar, most likely for a torn rotator cuff.  Common injury in climbers.”  He turned his head and looked back up at Lestrade.  “He wouldn’t be the first BASE jumper or abseiler to slip past the unremarkable security at the Shard.  They’ve had trouble with recreational trespassers since before construction was completed.  They don’t usually die on the way _up_ , but there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?  We won’t know for certain until you find his equipment.”  He looked up at Lestrade with an expectant expression on his face.  “Well?”

“But he drowned,” Molly said, blinking up at Sherlock as Lestrade walked away, his mobile already plastered to his ear.

“Yes, I know.”  He looked down at her, and she recognized that gleam of excitement in his eyes.  “That’s what makes it so interesting.”

Lestrade closed his phone a few moments later.  “I’ve got a couple of guys headed back out to do a thorough sweep inside the frame of the spire.  You going to come and unofficially see what we find?”

“Certainly, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said.  “I’ll get a cab and meet you there.”

“‘Course you will,” Lestrade said, unfazed.  He nodded at Molly and gave her a warm smile.  “Good to see you again, Dr. Hooper.”

“You too, Greg,” she said with a short wave.  She watched the doors swing shut behind Lestrade and then turned back to Sherlock.  “So what are you -” She stopped, startled by the dark, narrow-eyed expression on his face as he looked after the departing detective.  He was positively glowering.  “Are you okay?”

“Does Lestrade always smile at you like that?”

“Does he what?”  Molly frowned.  

“His divorce is final, that much is clear.  One too many P.E. teachers for even the noble copper to overlook.  It had to happen eventually.”  He turned his raptor’s gaze on her.  “So does he always smile at you like that, or was it just the instinctive response of a lonely, single man on the pull?”

Molly’s mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed to form a coherent response.  “W-well, he’s always been friendly, if that’s what you mean.”

“No.”  He elongated the word, letting it drag out to show his annoyance at having to clarify himself.  “That’s not what I meant.  And you know that’s not what I meant.  Don’t feign being obtuse, Molly.  I have too many historical examples of the unfeigned variety from which to stage a comparison.”

“Now you’re just being rude,” she said, crossing her arms and scowling up at him.

“Am I?”  His brow shot up in surprise.

She rolled her eyes.  Oh for heaven’s sake.  “Yes, you are.  Stop it.  And no, Lestrade doesn’t ‘always smile at me like that’.  He’s always been very friendly and pleasant to me, but on balance I’d say he’s probably smiling because he’s glad you’re back.”

“Is he?”  He looked back in surprise at the door Lestrade had just exited.

She closed her eyes and sighed.  It was really no good getting angry with him.  In many ways he was just brilliant, but in so many others he was such a child.  “Yes, of course he is.  We all are.”  She gathered all the paperwork on their drowned John Doe and tapped it all into a neat rectangle.  “Besides, what do you care if Lestrade smiles at me?”

He ignored the question and went to retrieve his coat.  Molly mentally threw up her hands and went back to her desk and the last few details of Mr. Patel’s autopsy report.  She already had her head bowed and her brow furrowed in concentration when Sherlock came to stand in front of her desk, making her look up.  He’d put on his scarf and coat with the collar turned up and was working his fingers studiously into his gloves.  

“You called John,” he said without looking up at her.  “About the body.”

Molly blinked in surprise.  “Um - I don’t know what you’re, uh - “  She wasn’t ever going to make much of an actress.

He rolled his eyes.  “Oh, please.  Lestrade certainly didn’t call him.  There are a limited number of people who know there’s a body at all, much less one unusual enough to interest me.”  He quirked an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to confess.

She flushed and looked down, glaring hard at her desk.  “I-I just thought that we could use you.  No - sorry, I mean, um, Greg - that Greg could use you - on the case that is.”  She resisted the urge to crawl under her desk until he left.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said softly.  “That was very - kind of you.”

“Oh, well I didn’t um -” she stammered.  When she looked up again, the doors to the morgue were swinging shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daisies, rainbows and unicorns to my betalicious team, Katie F and allofmyheart, who encourage, correct, prod and fangirl to keep me in line. In addition to my firstborn, I am also willing to throw in his little sister. She's *really* cute, but she's kind of a pain in the butt.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

It had been an exceedingly gratifying case.  John had written it up as ‘The Solitary Climber’, which made Sherlock wince.  He would never understand how John came up with these foolish designations.  He supposed it was an acceptable price to pay to see his friend tapping away at his computer with cheerful purpose once again, especially now that he’d had the sense to shave off that ridiculous moustache. 

Still riding the high of the past three weeks of engrossing investigation, Sherlock reached for his coat and decided to go for a walk.  He left John basking in the glow of his laptop while Mary sat curled up next to him on the sofa, entranced by a foolish rom-com on the telly.  It was dreadfully domestic.

His mind buzzed pleasantly with the aftereffects of the investigation.  It would be a short-lived lull in the storm, he knew, it always was, but he would revel in the calm while it lasted.  For a while, at least, his thoughts were steady, the roar abated.  He felt almost _relaxed_.

He had only ever found two ways to subdue the gnawing chaos that ate at his mind.  An engaging case that picked up the loose threads of his frantic thoughts was the less destructive option, when it was available.  The work smoothed the jagged edges, focused his attention, and gave it a purpose.  The other worked when nothing else could, when there were no cases, no distractions, no direction.  When the thought of spending another second inside his head was so unbearable that he could no longer stand it - that was when he had turned to the drugs.  

Cocaine had been his poison of choice for many years.  He’d experimented with it at uni out of his usual innate curiosity, but when he had discovered that it did what nothing else could - that it dulled his mind and made the inevitable boredom of daily life tolerable - then he had become an addict.

He’d thought of himself as a casual addict.  He did not depend on a regular or increasing supply of the little packets of powder to feed his addiction.  He only needed it - only _wanted_  it - when he wasn’t using his mind for anything engrossing enough to quiet the noise in his head.  It buoyed him through university and out the other side without slowing him down in any appreciable way.  It wasn’t until after he completed his studies, after he no longer had even the simple puzzles required of academia to interest him, that life became stupefyingly boring.  His mind had become a scribbled blur with no outlet.  There was no peace, no rest, no calm.  He had felt like going mad; he had wanted to scream his frustration and bash his head against a wall to just make it stop, for the love of Christ.

That was when he had started using in earnest.  He had given up the pretense of being a casual addict and embraced his addiction with wide-spread arms like a religious convert.  He had been a junkie and he hadn’t cared, because the oblivion was better than the madness.

And then Mycroft had found him out.

The brothers had never got on.  The age difference was too great, the personality difference even more insurmountable.  But Mycroft Holmes did care for his baby brother and, in deference to their mother’s worried expression, had made it a point to keep an eye on Sherlock after he had moved to London.  Sherlock was difficult to get a bead on simply because he was too good at knowing when he was being watched and even better at avoiding it if he so chose.  So, though Mycroft was diligent, it was nearly a year before he knew the depths to which his brother had sunk.

It was his arrest that had finally got Mycroft’s attention.  He had seen to it that Sherlock’s name was flagged in all the appropriate places, and the phone on his desk had rung almost before the arresting officer had finished filling out the report.

There had been no dramatic showdown, no intervention or threats or tears.  Mycroft had simply employed all the power of his non-existent position to have Sherlock’s ignominious arrest pulled from the records and destroyed.  Then he had personally driven the pale, emaciated wreck that had once been his younger brother to a facility that specialized in that sort of thing, and instructed them to take care of it.

Three months later Sherlock Holmes had emerged from the centre, enmity towards his brother cemented more firmly than a dragonfly trapped in amber, but clean.  His eyes, though narrowed in sullen dislike, were no longer hollow and bloodshot; his hair, if shaggy and in need of a cut, was no longer dry, dull and lifeless.  He was still painfully thin, but now there were muscles beneath the too-large clothing - a result of the compulsory physical exercise that came as part of the programme’s regimen.  He was angry and resentful, but Mycroft couldn’t possibly have cared less.  His brother was alive and healthy, and that was all that mattered.

With little pomp and even less conversation, Mycroft had taken him to a new flat he’d rented for Sherlock, had one very serious conversation about what would happen to him if he ever lost himself like that again and then pointed him in the direction of Scotland Yard.  

“If you won’t come and work with me, then help them, Sherlock.  For heaven’s sake, do something useful with yourself.”

“They don’t want my help,” he’d replied with a scowl, curled in a ball on the sofa, wrapped in his dressing gown. 

“Make them want it.  Or are you not as clever as that?”

Sherlock disappeared sixteen months later.  It took Mycroft nearly a month to track him down, but then they went straight from the dank hovel Sherlock had holed up in with the other homeless junkies back to the hospital for another three month stay.

There were a total of three relapses, spread across eleven years.  Each one of them was followed by a methodical search, expunged records, and an extended stay in the detox facility. 

The last time, the one that had finally put Mycroft over the edge, had been almost five years ago.  

He had arrived at the rehabilitation center in his personal car and was standing by the driver’s side door when Sherlock had sauntered outside with a petulant scowl on his face.  “Sherlock,” he nodded graciously to his little brother.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock responded, his tone clipped and irritable.  He went around to the passenger door and tried to open it, but it was still locked.  He cocked an eyebrow at his brother and waited.

Mycroft looked at him calmly across the bonnet of the car.  His voice was completely placid and unemotional.  “I will never do this again, do you understand?  The next time you vanish and I am expected to go and dig you out of some dirty, flea-infested hole, I will not only leave you there to rot, but I will also see to it that all of your previous records are reinstated.  You will have a criminal background.  You will be unable to work with the police ever again.  And I will tell Mummy.  Am I clear?”

Sherlock frowned at his brother, reading his resolve in the unperturbed expression on his face.  Then he nodded once.  “Yes.”

“Good.”  Mycroft smiled at him and unlocked the car.  “Oh, and one other thing,” he began as they settled into their seats for the return drive to London.  “I have found you a new flat in an excellent location.  You will know the landlady from a previous case of yours, I believe.  Her name is Hudson.”  He turned to Sherlock with a pleasant smile.  “It has two bedrooms.  You will find a flatmate who will keep you from making a fool out of yourself again, or I will yank your trust fund out from under you before you can blink.  Violate my terms, and you will be a penniless junkie living on the streets until you die, which, I think, would not be very long.”  He put the car in gear.  “Now, shall we go on?”

Sherlock was reluctant to give his elder brother credit for much of anything, but even he would admit, if pressed, that the threats worked.  He’d been clean since.

He had turned to nicotine patches and the work - always the work.  And then Mike Stamford had wandered into the Bart’s lab with a war veteran recently returned from Afghanistan who was in need of a flatmate.  And then, for a long time, the cases were there, and, more often than not, his mind was at peace.

The majority of his time as Joseph Bell had been absorbing enough to keep the temptation of  pharmaceutical escape at bay.  In Ashgabat, as the case - ‘the mission’ - became a trifling matter of tying up loose ends, the itch had started to come back, the fever of his mind spiking, and making him long desperately for relief.  The opium dens, which one only need know where to look in order to find, called to him, beckoning with slender, smokey fingers.

It was the thought of his brother turning his back as promised, of John’s disappointed disbelief, and oddly, of Molly’s saddened eyes, that made him turn away, made him push through and grit his teeth through the disorder.

And now he had the work again, and the chaos remained at bay.

He had been walking for some time, turning the details of the case over in his head, savouring the memory of the logical progression from unknown quantity to resolution.  Logic and reason - neatly ordered proof that turned any baffling mystery into a concise list of tangible, not at all mysterious facts.

His steps slowed and he glanced up, only partially surprised to find that he had fetched up on Molly’s doorstep once more.  He noted the dark windows of her flat, considering.  Surely she would want to know how the case had turned out.  She had, after all, been instrumental in his involvement.  He should thank her - or at the very least, let her know that it had been solved - that he had solved it.

He pressed the button next to her nearly illegible doctor’s scrawl and waited.  A minute passed and he squinted at the panel of buttons, wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with the bell.  She wouldn’t be out on a weeknight, would she?  He thought briefly of Lestrade and then discarded the idea.  No, she had been telling the truth about that.  At least from her own perspective.  She probably had no idea how many men found her attractive.  If she wasn’t observant enough to make that deduction on her own, he certainly wasn’t going to do it for her.

He was just starting to think about pressing one of her neighbour’s bells, just to ensure that the panel was, in fact, working, when a sleepy voice came over the intercom.

“Hullo?  Who’s this?” 

“It’s Sherlock.  Can I come up?”

“Sherlock?”  She sounded more awake now.  “What are you - Do you know that it’s one-thirty in the morning?”  Definitely more awake, definitely annoyed.

“Is it?  I must have lost track of time.  Can I come up?”

Her sigh came through the speaker as a tinny hiss.  “Yeah, of course you can.”

The door buzzed and he took the steps two at a time, meeting a squinting Molly on the top landing just as she opened her door, wrapped in a peach dressing gown with her hair in a plait.

“I was asleep,” she said by way of greeting, but she stood aside and gestured for him to enter.

The hall light was on, but her sitting room was still dark as he skirted around the brocade armchair and dropped onto the sofa, careful to first check for any sign of her cat.

She crossed the room, shuffling in her slippers, and switched on the overhead light.  “Tea?”

“That would be marvelous, thanks.”  He gave her a winning smile, but she just wrinkled her brow at him and shuffled into the kitchen.

He felt a flash of discomfort.  It was quite late, wasn’t it?  Perhaps she was annoyed with him for coming by.  Maybe she still hadn’t forgiven him for launching himself at her the last time he had been there - but no, surely if she was angry with him, she wouldn’t have gone out of her way to help him reconnect with Lestrade.

A few minutes later, she came back into the room, bearing two mugs of tea and wearing a pair of wire-framed glasses.  She held out a steaming mug and then sat in the armchair with the other, carefully tucking her dressing gown around her legs.  “Sorry, I’m out of milk.  I need to get to the shop after work tomorrow.”

“You’re wearing glasses,” he said, realization blooming in his chest.  She wasn’t angry with him.  She simply hadn’t been able to see him from across the room.  He relaxed and leaned back on the sofa, taking a sip of the scalding liquid.  
  
She gave him a puzzled glance.  “Yeah, I wear contacts usually, but I take those out before I go to bed.”  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “To sleep.”

“Of course you do,” he said, nodding agreeably.  “I thought, since I was in the neighbourhood, I would stop off and let you know that the case was concluded satisfactorily.”

She perked up visibly and shifted in her seat, tucking her feet underneath her and looking at him with interest over the top of her mug.  “Was it, then?  That’s great news, Sherlock.  Congratulations.”  

Her face lit up with a delighted smile, and he found that he was quite glad that he had dropped in.

“So what happened, then?” she asked, settling into her chair.  “How did a climber come to die from drowning on top of the tallest building in London?”

“Reggie Craig, thirty-three, a solicitor from Middlesex,” he began, pulling the facts of the case easily from his memory.  “He was, as I suspected, a self-styled ‘urban explorer’.  Plenty of others have done just what he did and lived to tell the tale, but our Mr. Craig made the lamentable mistake of choosing a day with rain in the forecast.”  He paused to take a sip of his tea and noted absently that Molly made an excellent listener.  She was watching him with rapt attention and obvious curiosity but made no move to interrupt or ask questions.  “Sadly for Mr. Craig, the Shard was designed with certain features worked into the design to make it more appealing to the green community that protested its being built in the first place - in particular a channel that directs rain runoff down into a reservoir inside the building.  It’s a reserve water supply - keeps the fountains filled, waters the grass, that sort of thing.  Unfortunately, Reggie tethered his safety rope just below the spillover for the channel.  It didn’t take much of a storm for the runoff to turn into an extended torrent of water not unlike a waterfall.  He would have had no way of getting out from underneath it.”

“He unhooked his safety harness trying to get away,” Molly said, comprehending.  “That’s why he fell.”

Sherlock nodded, pleased that she had grasped the facts so readily.  “Yes, obviously.  He didn’t quite work his way free though.  He was already dead by the time the pressure of the water knocked his body loose of the harness.”

“Poor man,” she said.  Her face was drawn in projected sympathy.  “It seems such a shame for someone to die so pointlessly, and in such a random accident.”

“Oh, it was no accident,” he said, taking another sip of his tea.  “It was definitely murder.  They’re not likely to get him on anything more than negligent homicide, but Reggie’s ‘best mate’, Oliver Northwood, recently of the Shard’s environmental planning council, was the one who showed him how to get in and where to tether his safety cables.  Even more interestingly, Mrs. Craig informed us that Oliver was adamant that Reggie do his climb that night, citing his own ability to get him past security as the reason.  Which _could_  be coincidental, but highly unlikely, given the weather service’s near certainty of an overnight storm on that particular evening, and Oliver’s certain knowledge of the spillover.”

“Well, that’s...unexpected.”  Molly blinked.  “Still, good show working it all out.”  She gave an awkward little laugh and then buried her face in her mug. 

He tilted his head to the side and gave her an appraising look.  It was hard to tell if the flush on her cheeks was from the warmth of the tea or embarrassment.  He couldn’t think of anything that should have caused her to feel embarrassed, but then he had never entirely understood how Molly’s mind worked.  At times, she could be such an easy read, and then at others she was perfectly opaque.  She had always been such an odd mixture of seemingly disparate qualities.

She looked absurdly childlike just now, sitting in the fussy chair with her hair trailing across her shoulder.  He felt a peculiar sensation in his chest as he regarded her that made it difficult for him to swallow his last mouthful of tea.

He wondered suddenly why he was there.  What had compelled him to walk miles across town to bring this news to her doorstep?  He could have just as easily dropped into the morgue in the morning to tell her about the case, or indeed, not told her about it at all.  She read John’s blog, or at least she said she did.  She could have found all the pertinent details there, if she were interested.

He set his mug down abruptly and got to his feet, frowning.  This was insupportable.  What was he thinking?

She blinked up at him, the overhead light reflecting circles back at him from the surface of her glasses.  “Sherlock?”  Her nose was wrinkled in confusion.  

He looked down at her, and a rush of heat tore through him.  
  
His ability to recall detail was extraordinary.  Sorted, organized and thorough - facts, images, sensations - unadulterated memory, easily accessed, flawlessly remembered.

And he remembered.  He remembered exactly the feel of her lips, warm and willing beneath his own, the soft exhalation of her breath against his skin, the sound of her gasp when he moved against her, the scent of her shampoo, soap and skin mingling with the raw musk of her arousal.

His heart thundered in his chest and his breath came short.  He tore his gaze away from Molly with almost painful effort.

Too long.  He had been away too long.  London, his friends, his old life, Molly - they had begun to take on an almost mythical quality in his memory.  He had missed them, longed for them - for the ordinary life they had represented, for the world he wanted to return to - their world, _her_  world.  

She had been the one tie to his old life that he had carried with him, the link he had left in place to pull him back after the hunt was over, when the game was at its close.  She was the beacon he sought on the other side of the mission.  He had known that when he saw her again, it would  mean success, a measure of peace, and the knowledge that it was time to get back on with his life.

That’s all it was.  It was nothing more than visceral physicality resulting from the intellectual investment of two years of build-up.  That was all it was; it had to be.

He needed to leave.  He needed to turn away from shy, sweet, sleepy Molly Hooper, who sat there in her ages-old dressing gown, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her crinkled nose, and go home.

But what he wanted was to reach out to her.  He wanted to bury his fingers in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, his cock in her warm, wet heat.  Wanted to lose himself in her arms, in her body, in the soft sounds she would make when he tasted her, when he moved inside her, when he - God, no!  

With something like a snarl, he turned and headed determinedly for the door.  He willed his mind still, prayed for the images to recede, for the desire to ease, for the desperate _want_  to subside.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”  Molly’s voice was alarmed, and suddenly worried.

He couldn’t concern himself with that right now.  He needed to get out, needed to get away, needed to - 

A small, tentative hand touched his arm as he reached for the door.  He closed his eyes and shuddered.  He’d been so close.

Breathing heavily, he turned on her, quickly, startling her, making her jump backwards. 

Good.  It was good for her to back away.  But it wasn’t enough.  It was too late.  Was it too late?  His body thought so, clearly.

Molly’s eyes were wide, her face pale in the light.  She looked frightened, and some malicious place in his mind wallowed in her fear.  Let her fear him.  Let him terrify her like she was terrifying him.  
  
He had backed her into the wall without realizing he was doing it.  He towered over her, crowding her with his body, pinning her to the wall with his gaze as easily and firmly as if he held her in place with his hands.

Once he had told her that he needed her, and he had - he had needed her help, her expertise, her willingness to keep his secrets.  Now he just needed _her_.

With hands that trembled, from what emotion he couldn’t say, he reached up and brushed his thumb gently across her lower lip.  Her eyes fluttered closed and her breathing ratcheted up to match his own laboured breaths.

Her chin tilted up and he bent towards her, intent on her parted lips.

And then he stopped. 

He hovered over her mouth for a long moment, shaking as he fought against his own weakness.     Molly opened her eyes, and he saw himself there in the clear, whisky-colored depths of her gaze, a fool. 

With a desperate effort, he clamped a steel hand over his emotions - useless, costly things - and turned away without a word.  

He was out of her door, down the stairs, and striding across the pavement in less time than it had taken him to get away from the bomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, there's that sexual tension again! I wondered where it had got off to:) Poor Molly! Will that man ever get his act together?
> 
> All the usual bowing and scraping to Katie F and allofmyheart for taking time out of their busy lives to help shove me onward to the finish line in grammatically correct and Britishified style. This story wouldn't make it without their help. Y'all are the wine beneath my wings (no, that is not a typo. I said wine and I MEANT wine:)


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Molly slid to the floor after Sherlock’s abrupt departure, breathing heavily, not bothering to check the tears that streaked down her face.  She felt foolish and embarrassed, and on top of all that, she was angry.

Why did she keep letting him treat her this way?  After all the years of insult and offense, of backhanded compliments and outright mistreatment, why couldn’t she just tell him to bugger off?  Why, _why_  did she keep inviting him back to destroy her?  

She’d been a bit mad for Sherlock since the day she had met him during her second week at Bart’s nearly five years before.  He’d been overbearing, supercilious and rude, but he’d also been breathtaking and brilliant and he hadn’t looked down his nose at her, or treated her like a little girl who had gotten lost on her way to a nursing degree.  He didn’t care that she was young, he didn’t care that she was a woman in a male-dominated field, and he really didn’t care why she had decided to become a pathologist rather than something more socially acceptable.  All he cared about was that she was smart, good at her job, and willing to either help him or get out of his way. 

He’d come bashing through the doors into the morgue in the middle of the morning on her third Monday at Bart’s.  His eyes were intent on his phone, and he hadn’t even bothered to spare her a glance her before he had started spitting out directions in such rapid fire staccato that she hadn’t been able to follow it all.  She had blinked at the tall, dark-haired apparition, a bit stunned as she hovered over what was only the third solo autopsy of her post-residency career.

When the litany finally ended, he had at last looked up and then frowned, seeming extremely displeased to see her there.

She had taken a deep breath and mentally squared her shoulders, waiting for the same conversation she’d been having with every new person she met at hospital for the past fortnight.  Yes, _she_  was the new pathologist, yes, she had graduated early, but no she was not still an infant.  She was terribly qualified, had passed all her boards with flying colors and was quite certain she hadn’t taken a wrong turn somewhere, thank you very much.

None of that had ended up being necessary because he had simply barked, “Where is Dr. Berryman?”

“Um, Dr. Berryman retired last month.  I - I’m the new pathologist...um, hello.”  She had raised her hands as if to sketch a short wave at him, then realized that she was still holding a rather cirrhosed liver.  Feeling awkward and off-balance, a sensation she was far too familiar with, she had at least managed to kick her brain back into gear sufficiently to complete her initial task and set it carefully on the scale.  She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she carried on working, entirely unsure of what to say to him.  He clearly belonged, or thought he belonged, down here in the bowels of the hospital, but he also didn’t seem like any doctor or tech she had ever met.

Without a word, he had immediately gone back to texting furiously on his phone, his brow furrowed into dramatic lines like a storm front passing across his forehead.  

He was an unusual-looking man with high cheekbones and a long angular face that shouldn’t have been, but somehow was, stunningly beautiful.  He was tall and lean with the wiry build of a long-distance runner and a mop of curly dark hair that she immediately itched to bury her hands in.  He had the fairest complexion she had ever seen on a man, and even from across the room his eyes were heart-stopping.

And then he had looked back up at her with equal parts puzzlement and irritation.  “Well?  Just because you aren’t Dr. Berryman doesn’t mean I don’t need those tissue samples.  

“Sorry, what?”

“Yes, I get it, you’re new,” he said, with obvious impatience, speaking in that same rapid, hard to follow patter.  “But you’re clearly bright - first in your class, landed a prestigious job straight out of uni - on your merits, no connections - worked hard your whole life to get the same respect as your more mature peers.  I know you’re not completely stupid.  So stop acting like you are.”

She recoiled as if he’d slapped her.  “Wha - “

He flapped a hand at her dismissively.  “Don’t get hung up on it.  Just about everyone that works here is stupid.”

She let that go without comment.  “How did you know all that about me?” she demanded instead.  “Who are you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said, his attention already refocused on his phone.  “I didn’t _know_  all that about you.  I saw, I looked, I observed.  You would be amazed at what you can learn about someone if you bother to pay the slightest bit of attention to them.”

“The very slightest,” she said, under her breath at the top of his head.

“What’s that?”  He glanced up at her again and his mouth twisted into a smirk.  “You think I’m not paying attention to you - is that it?  You’re wrong about that.”  He stuck his phone in his pocket and crossed his arms, leaning one hip against that work table as if settling in for a good natter.  “How did I know all that about you, Dr. Molly Hooper,” he began, arching one smug eyebrow.  “You’re young, at least two years younger than the average doctor of pathology coming straight out of residency, which means you graduated early.  No residency program is going to want to take an early graduate, especially a woman, unless there are extraordinary circumstances - misogynistic maybe, but there you have it - too many logistical nightmares.  Well then, could be good connections, right?  No.  You don’t have connections.  You come from a working class background.  First in your family to attend university at all if I’m right, and I nearly always am.  Good connections means money and you don’t know much at all about that.  You dress off the rack, resole your shoes and get your hair cut at the discount salon.  You’re thrifty - a lifetime habit.  So, no - no connections of that sort.  Your residency program took you because they could hardly turn down the student that came first in her class, could they?  You didn’t do your residency here at Bart’s, and I know that quite simply because I would have met you before now, but the fact that you are here now - board certified as a forensic pathologist - means that you worked harder and longer hours than any of your classmates to get taken seriously, and, inadvertently, impressed the hell out of the hiring committee with your intelligence and work ethic.  Now, if I could just get you to be slightly more cooperative and get me the Harcourt tissue samples, then we’d be well on our way to a spectacular working relationship.”

She had gawped unbecomingly at him for a solid minute before she’d been able to get her brain back in working order.  In the end, she’d gone and gotten him the tissue samples and watched him disappear into the lab across the hall without a backwards glance her way.

Within the first five minutes she’d known that he was a lost cause and within ten that she was going to end up hopelessly in love with him anyway.

And now, here she sat, five years later, curled into an unhappy ball on her sitting room floor, wishing she’d never met the bastard.  She pulled her knees into her chest as if she could contain the hurt that way.   

It had never mattered before that he wasn’t interested in her.  She had never really expected him to return her regard.  What on earth would be the inducement?  She wasn’t nearly as intelligent as he was, wasn’t beautiful in any sense of the word and could barely string two sentences together in his presence without making an utter fool of herself.  She had been content, happy even, to consider him her friend.  Now she didn’t know what he was, and that was, somehow, more painful than thinking - knowing - that her feelings for him would always go unrequited. 

Something had changed in Sherlock while he was away.  She didn’t know exactly what, and she certainly couldn’t hazard a guess as to the cause, but he seemed more human and less like the disconnected and indifferent loner that he had been before.  She suspected it was temporary, and that he was merely adjusting to being back in his own skin after so long, but the dispassionate intellect that he used as his shield against the world had slipped.  To her surprise, and no doubt his own, lurking beneath was a raw sort of tenderness, like the missing scales on a dragon’s belly.  In time, she was sure he would find his footing again and things would be much as they always had been, but how long that might take and how much damage he might do in the meantime was anybody’s guess, least of all hers.  She was in no position to be objective.

She had tried.  God knows she had tried to divorce herself from the situation.  Hadn’t she been the one to keep them from making an enormous mistake the last time?  It had been like carving part of her heart out with a garden trowel to walk away from him that night, but she had done it because she cared about him and because she didn’t want to become something that he regretted.  But she wasn’t a machine and she couldn’t push him away forever - though clearly that wasn’t an issue the way she had feared it might be.  When push came to shove, he had proved that he was perfectly capable of pulling away entirely on his own, just not before wringing her out completely.

Of course she was angry with him.  He had come to her flat in the middle of the night with God only knew what initial intention, but then he had taken pains to impress her, to _show off_  for her, and, out of nowhere, like the flipping of a switch, he had turned into a predatory animal, stalking her across her sitting room, exuding such powerful sexuality that her body had reacted without him ever having to touch her.  It made the idea of actually having sex with Sherlock Holmes sound positively terrifying.  And then - nothing.  Not a word, not an explanation, not so much as a by-your-leave, and he was gone again.  It wasn’t the first time he had turned her on her head, nor was it the first time she had been angry with him, but it was probably the first time she had been even more furious with herself than with him.

She shuddered, miserable in a tear-stained heap on the floor of her own flat.  She had no one but herself to blame.  He couldn’t make her feel like this if she didn’t let him.  And she kept letting him.  For five years she had given Sherlock the keys to her emotions without expecting anything in return, not even having her heart left in one piece.  God, she was a fool.  What had she expected? 

With a weary sigh, she climbed to her feet and went into the bath to wash her face.   

In the mirror, a stranger with puffy eyes and a reddened nose looked back at her with contempt.  So much power to give away to someone who did nothing to deserve it in the first place.  
  
She was tired and sad and had to get up for work in less than four hours, but she didn’t think she was going to be able to get anymore sleep tonight, much as she was desperate for the relief of unconsciousness.  Her mind whirled and her heart hurt, and somewhere deep in her subconscious, she was starting to realize something that she should have picked up on nearly five years ago.  

Sherlock Holmes was astonishing and brilliant and beautiful, but he was also the most self-absorbed, miserable bastard to have ever walked the earth.  It was her misfortune that she had fallen in love with him - or at least, the idealized version of him that she had invented for herself.  But she didn’t have to let it define her.  It was up to her to let his changeable moods and scathing words get under her skin or not.

It was time for her to chose not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit of a short chapter this time. Our Molly is having a bit of a rough time of it, and Sherlock is being very... well, Sherlock.
> 
> Katie F and allofmyheart are, as ever, responsible for making my little corner of the Sherlollyverse readable. Thanks be to you guys liek whoa.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Sherlock wondered, if he asked nicely and perhaps smiled a bit, if he couldn’t get Mary to go down to the shop for him.  They were out of biscuits and he was peckish, but he needed to be present in the flat for at least the next three hours to ensure that none of the tightly sealed cans in the kitchen sink exploded.  Perhaps if he mentioned the possibility of exploding cans to her - 

“Mary,” he began, pulling out his most winning smile, the one that always worked when he used it on Mrs. Hudson or Molly.

“No, Sherlock,” Mary Morstan said without looking up from her magazine.  She was sitting cross-legged in John’s usual chair, her blonde hair twisted up on the back of her head.  Her glasses sat perched on her nose as she paged through some kind of periodical with ridiculously flouncy white skirts and improbably happy-looking couples splashed across the cover.

He slumped back into his seat and scowled across the room at her.  She ignored him.

John’s fiancée had been something of a surprise, both in her existence as well as her character.  For one thing, he was able to consistently remember her name.  That in itself was astonishing enough.  The parade of interchangeable women that John had plowed through prior to her were all nameless, faceless features - the brunette, the one with the glasses, the one with the horrible laugh, the lesbian - that last one had been less of a problem for John than Sherlock had expected.  Mary had been Mary since the moment he had met her, roughly two minutes after her husband-to-be had laid him out flat on the floor at The Faircot.  Not only that, but Sherlock found that he could actually stand her, in short doses at least.  She was intelligent and direct and, possibly, as protective of John as Sherlock was himself.

While he was still working on picking himself up off the tastefully expensive, not to mention, hard marble tile floor that John had seen fit to introduce him to, Mary had arrived at the restaurant.  She had recovered from the unexpected shock of meeting her fiancé's deceased former flatmate with surprising speed and then taken the whole situation neatly into hand.  She had charmed the waiter, placated the manager and sweet-talked her way into a pair of ice packs.  She was much more gentle in the act of icing John’s swollen hand than she was in seeing to Sherlock’s own rapidly darkening black eye, he had noted somewhat bitterly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” she had said with only a trace of sarcasm in her voice.  She dropped to one knee next to him, disregarding her expensive dress and extending the ice pack like a peace offering.

“Ms. Morstan,” he said with a nod of thanks, accepting what he surmised was intended as an olive branch.  He winced as he set the cold pack against the swelling flesh around his eye.

“I mean it, too,” she said, conversationally.  She rested her wrists on her knees and looked down at him.  “It really is a pleasure to meet you.  John has told me all sorts of wonderful things about you, some of which, I am sure, are actually true.”  She looked up a John with soft eyes and a warm smile.  “I’m glad he has you back.  I know it means the world to him.”  She looked back at Sherlock and her expression changed temperature.  “But Mr. Holmes, please let me assure you that if you ever do anything like that to him again, I will see to it personally that you remain dead.”  She offered him a hand up and, uncharacteristically, he accepted it.

“The pleasure is mine, Ms. Morstan,” he assured her, as he stood, brushing off his lapels and adjusting the sleeves of his jacket.  He inclined his head.  “Call me Sherlock, please.”

A broad smile spread across her face.  “Certainly.  And you must call me Mary, of course.  We’re to be family, near about.”

John looked back and forth between them.  “Unbelievable,” he said with a shake of his head.

In the end, they had retired back to Baker Street for their dinner rather than indulging the other Faircot patrons’ curiosity.  Mary had worked surprising magic with the contents of the cupboards and produced.  She produced an excellent dinner and an even more excellent bottle of wine, which Sherlock presumed had been set aside for a special occasion, given how dear it must have come.  He was not insensible of the intended sentiment, though he wondered why she bothered given that he rarely drank, and never took wine.

After dinner, she had examined John’s bruised knuckles as well as the object on which they had been bruised - Sherlock’s cheekbone - and pronounced everything officially sound and unbroken.  Then she had prescribed paracetamol all around, given her fiancé a quick kiss, and gone to bed, leaving Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to figure the rest of their problems out on their own.

Sherlock had decided then that, if John was going to insist on encumbering himself with a wife, he would, at least, be grateful that he had chosen a useful one.

He wished she’d be a little more useful just now, however.  He really could do with at packet of biscuits, and it didn’t look at all like she had any intention of going anywhere anytime soon.

Out of sheer ennui - or perhaps in retaliation, he wasn’t sure - he launched himself across the room and took up his violin with a flourish.  He glanced at Mary out of the corner of his eye as he notched the instrument under his chin and drew a long, low, mournful note out across the strings.

She turned a page in her magazine but still didn’t look up.  He frowned at her.  Why was she still here?  Why didn’t she go back to her own flat?  John wouldn’t be home from his shift with DMS for several hours yet and he was stuck in the flat until the cans didn’t explode.  It was irritating having someone underfoot who refused to pay him the slightest bit of attention.

He turned toward the window and adjusted his hold, blocking Mary out of his mind altogether. 

Initially, he had only planned to pick out a few notes in order to chase her into John’s room, if not back to her own flat, but it felt good to have the bow in his hand and to breathe in the sharp scent of fresh rosin.  He closed his eyes and pictured notes scattered across crisp, white staff paper like a photo negative of the stars, waiting to be translated into warm, rich sound by his bow.  He flexed his arm, and the opening notes of Kreisler’s Praeludium and Allegro filled the room.

The violin was the first thing John had handed him when he walked back into the flat again as a permanent resident.  “I cleaned out some things,” he said, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “some of your things.  But this, - I couldn’t seem to get rid of it.”  He gave a short laugh and shrugged, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets.  “I thought maybe I’d give it to Mycroft eventually, or something.  I don’t know.  Not sure why I’m giving the damn thing back to you, really - it’s probably some latent form of masochism.  God knows I didn’t miss the screeching at all hours.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock had set the case on the table and opened it, lifting the violin carefully from its velvet-lined nest, going back in his mind for the way it should feel in his hands.  After two years of not using his fingers for anything finer than doing up the buttons on his shirt, they felt awkward and clumsy on the fingerboard.  But then, once he held it, high and firm, his memory served him well, and the way of it came back to him in a flood.  When he finally drew the bow gently across the strings, he felt the fullness of the music permeate the empty spaces between his atoms, and the remnants of Joseph Bell passed forever into history as Sherlock Holmes took the first breath of his rebirth.

He played with his eyes closed now, gliding through the complex arpeggios, relishing the warmth of the late afternoon sun that poured in through the window and the familiar feel of his muscles shifting as he moved the bow.

The concentration and focus required of the instrument checked the speed of his usual rapid-fire reasoning and helped him organize and categorize his thoughts.  He pulled them out of the maelstrom and examined them individually - sorting, filing or discarding as was warranted - until all the pertinent facts were accounted for.  It was a tool he used frequently in the midst of a challenging case.  

It was not a case that vied for his attention today, however.  Not for the first time since his return, his mind was settled firmly on the problem of Molly Hooper.

And she was a problem now.  He had never thought of her as such before he went away.  In fact, back then, he had hardly thought of her at all.  She had been useful, cooperative and accommodating for the most part, and he had appreciated her presence at St. Barts for all those reasons.  Disconnected as he knew everyone thought him in regards to human behavior, he had not been insensible of her apparent interest in him.  It had worked in his favor on more than one occasion, and he had felt no compunction in exploiting it to get what he wanted.  He considered her something of a co-worker or a colleague, an acquaintance perhaps; he never would have thought to call her friend.  And now?  Now he thought about her far too much.  

Was this sentiment?  The idea made him frown.  He didn’t do emotional entanglements.  He never had.  They were messy and complicated, with little advantage to be found on either side.  Sentiment was a distracting weakness that he neither needed nor wanted in his life.

Sherlock did not believe in the concept of romantic love.  It was nothing more than a temporary by-product of chemical evolution - a convenient fiction created by humankind to justify the need for sexual fidelity, and nothing more.  Love was not real, and it certainly did not last.  He had never understood the desperate desire everyone seemed to have to tie themselves indelibly to another person, to willingly hand power over into the hands of someone who could not possibly resist the urge to abuse it.  The majority of all violent crimes were perpetrated against someone that the attacker would have claimed to love.  What he found even more bewildering was how frequently the abused, assuming that they managed to survive, would take their abuser back with open and unguarded arms.  Love was a foolish impediment.

He understood the need for sexual release, but that was a physiological imperative unrelated to the psychological desire for interpersonal relationships.  He wasn’t as inhuman as people tended to think; he was simply able to separate the two and distance himself from both.  When his body demanded release, he gratified himself just as any other man would, but it was always a purely physical experience, free of any unnecessary emotional association - or, at least, it always had been before.  

During the extended months away from England, away from his former life, when the need for release had clawed at him and he had reached for himself in the dark, he had been unable to resist the images that ghosted through his mind of sweet brown eyes and a curtain of dark hair, of her mouth, of the smooth curve of her pale throat and then, with his heart pounding and his breathing loud in his ears, he had spilled himself, gasping, with the taste of her name on his lips.

So yes, Molly Hooper was a problem in need of a solution, and soon.  He did not like having to avoid the lab at Bart’s, but he could not afford another incident like the one in her flat the previous week.  He needed separation from her, time to purge whatever this preoccupation was with the shy pathologist.

The final notes of the Allegro faded from the room, and Sherlock lowered the violin to the sound of slow applause.

He turned in surprise to discover that Mary had gone, and instead, Mycroft stood across the room, watching him.

“Home is the sailor, home from the sea and the hunter home from the hill,” his brother quoted softly, with a half smile that did not quite reach his eyes.  “And the consulting detective home from the shadowlands, apparently.”  He cocked his head to the side for a long moment as if waiting for Sherlock to reply.  He didn’t.  “Welcome home, little brother.  I cannot tell you how pleased I was to read about your resurrection in the Post last week.”

“You’re looking well, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.  “The extra weight suits you.”  He took up a cloth from the case and began industriously wiping down the wood beneath the violin strings.  He had been putting off seeing his brother for better than a month, and he wasn’t sure he was in the mood for a reunion even now, possibly ever.

Mycroft’s eyes tightened.  “It would have been decent of you to let me know that you were still alive, you know.  Poor Mummy has been so distraught.”

Sherlock raised a disbelieving brow.  “Oh, did you not have your lackeys report back to you in all that time?  That’s a bit of oversight on your part, brother.  I would have thought you’d have them better trained than that.”

There was a flicker behind his elder brother’s gaze.  “We knew you had survived the fall from Barts, of course,” he said.  “But the explosion is Ashgabat, well, let’s just say that was less of a certainty.”

Sherlock frowned.  He’d known someone was keeping an eye on him periodically during his sojourn in Turkmenistan, but the man had been acceptably unobtrusive, so he had, for the most part, simply ignored him.  He wondered that one of Mycroft’s agents wouldn’t have been able to pick up his trail again after the bomb went off at his apartment.  He wouldn’t have been difficult to trace unless -  “You lost him.”

Mycroft inclined his head.  “Indeed.  My man was following a little too closely behind Joseph Bell during his final hours in Turkmenistan.  Mr. Bell survived the bomb; Archie Smith did not.”

Sherlock frowned.  “I didn’t need a babysitter, Mycroft.”

“No doubt Archie’s family would agree with you,” he said mildly and then shrugged.  “It is no matter.  He was aware of the risks, as they all are.  Excellent death benefits, commendation for loss of life in the service of the queen - the boy will have good reason to be proud of his father.”

“The boy will _think_  he has good reason to be proud of his father, you mean,” Sherlock corrected.  He slotted the violin and bow back into the case and closed the lid in disgust.  Mycroft’s highhanded manner had always rankled; now it positively grated.

“It’s much the same thing, isn’t it?”  Mycroft arched a knowing brow at his brother.  “Perception is formed on the basis of expectation, after all.  The boy - Charles is his name - the boy and his mother expect to hear that their dearly departed is a hero.  Would you prefer they be told the truth?  That their husband and father lost his life on a minor mission regarding an insignificant personage of no great import to the Empire?  True though it may be, it would be no kindness, Sherlock, nor would it make their burden any easier to bear.”

“So truth is only important when it is useful or kind?” he said, challenge in his tone.

“Better a beautiful lie than an ugly truth, Sherlock, at least in cases like this.”

“Ignorance is bliss, you mean,” Sherlock said, disdain dripping from his words.  “If I thought for a second that you actually ascribed to that philosophy, I’d throw you out of here for good.”

“Goodness, we wouldn’t want _that_.”  Mycroft’s eyes widened in mock alarm.  “I think you know quite well what my personal standing is on the matter.  But given my position, I do not have the luxury of grounding all of my official actions in my own bias.  I have a responsibility on, say, those lamentable occasions when I must inform a newly-made widow of the alteration in her marital status.”

“Do you expect me to feel guilty?”  This wasn’t the first time they had played this game.  His brother was extraordinarily well-versed in the psychology of eliciting a desired response.  He wasn’t above moving on to other, more physically convincing avenues of coercion, but he did like to at least attempt his own personal brand of witchcraft first.

“Hardly.” Mycroft smiled in vague amusement.  “Just as no one expects to extract water from a stone, no one expects to get any sort of feeling whatsoever out of Sherlock Holmes, no matter how hard you might squeeze.”

Sherlock said nothing.  He would not rise to his brother’s inelegant attempt at baiting him.  He would not point out the obvious, would not rail against him for his role in Jim Moriarty’s final machinations.  It didn’t matter that Mycroft had been the one to arm Moriarty - that he had handed Sherlock’s life to a madman like some kind of twisted bedtime story in exchange for useless information.  In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t even matter that Mycroft had given the names - John Watson, Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade - to a certifiably insane criminal mastermind hell-bent on Sherlock’s downfall.  It didn’t matter because of the one name that Mycroft hadn’t known to tell him.  He didn’t know about Molly, and that one tiny little secret had been enough to save them all.

“Well,” Mycroft said, standing and brushing off the lapels of his suit.  He reached for his umbrella.  “I thought I should address your return for myself since you clearly had no intentions of coming to see me - “

“What about you, brother dear?” Sherlock asked suddenly.  “Do you feel guilty?”  He knew the answer, knew exactly what degree of base sentimentality Mycroft struggled against, but he was not above the childish desire to make him acknowledge his failings out loud.

“Yes, of course.”  He answered immediately, his voice unexpectedly soft.  “I nearly always do.”  He met his Sherlock’s eyes with his own.  “Quite honestly, I envy you your ability to distance yourself so completely from your emotions.”

“Is that caring, brother?”  Sherlock sneered.

“Yes, it is.  I’m afraid I simply find myself incapable of turning it off the way you do.  Caring may be a disadvantage, but it is also terribly human.”  He turned towards the door and then stopped.  “Oh, I nearly forgot.”  He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a thick white envelope.  “You are officially in the land of the living once more.  All of your documents are here.  Feel free to do with this life just what you did with the last one.”  He dropped it on the chair.

“Do you think I would be more effective if I cared, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.  “Do you honestly think it would help?  Because I don’t.”

“That depends on what you want to be effective at.  As a consulting detective?  No, I don’t think it would help at all.  As a person?”  He looked back, appraising his brother thoughtfully.  “Yes.  Yes, then I think it would help quite a bit.  Goodbye, Sherlock.  I’ll pass on your regards to Mummy.  You really should consider visiting her sometime soon.  She does worry about you, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're dying to see our pathologist and her consulting detective together again - next chapter, I promise! And it really was time for Mycroft to put in an appearance, unwelcome as his brother might find it.
> 
> Mycroft quotes a bit out of Robert Louis Stevenson's 'Requiem'.
> 
> Lollipops and unicorns to Katie F and allofmyheart for their continued betaliciousness and general, overall awesomeness.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The hospital cafeteria was nearly deserted at this hour. The food service staff was industriously cleaning and preparing for the next meal in the back of the kitchen. The din of their relaxed chatter and the metallic clanging of serving pans were all distant background noise, and so familiar that Molly didn't hear it anymore. She preferred to take her breaks during the lulls like this when she was least likely to have to make conversation or share a table with anyone.

She sat in a secluded corner, stirring her coffee absently. She had added too much sugar and it was sweeter than she liked, but she couldn't seem to muster enough enthusiasm to walk back over to the coffee machine to doctor it back into palatability.

Howard and Sanjay were down in the morgue cataloging their only new case for the afternoon. It was another suspected suicide the Yard had fished out of the Thames that morning and she was perfectly contented letting them take this one while she ran tissue samples in the lab. Someone had to do all the glamorous work.

She checked her watch and took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the taste. There was still a good half an hour or better left before she had any hope of her tests being completed. She leaned on her elbow, her chin propped in her hand and watched the traffic flow past outside the window.

Everyone outside seemed intent and in a hurry. They all had somewhere to be, or something to do, or someone waiting for them on the other end. She quirked her lips and sighed, and then shook her head, clearing away the sense of melancholy that would have settled over her if she let it. No more of that nonsense, thank you. There was no reason she had to look out on the world as if all the interesting things were happening to someone else, was there? She deserved her chance at happiness and fulfillment just as much as the next person. If she was tired of being lonely on the weekends, then it was up to her to push herself out of her comfort zone and change things up.

She glanced around the practically empty cafeteria and then smiled wryly to herself. The first thing she was going to have to do was stop being such a recluse. Morbid Molly who worked down in the depths of the hospital morgue and took all of her meals alone was destined to stay just so - alone.

Now that Sherlock was back and the brief upset his reappearance had caused was fading back into the usual routine for everyone, she saw what she had not been willing to see before - that she had put her life on hold for him. He hadn't asked her to and she knew he certainly hadn't expected it, but she had done it, nonetheless. For all those months that he had been on the other side of the world, she had felt absurdly connected to him, like she was the tether to his old life and was responsible for holding his place. Whether she would have ever admitted it to herself then or not, she realized now that she had been waiting to move on with her life until he came back. Had she thought something might happen between them when he was once again residing at Baker Street? She honestly couldn't say. Surely she had not allowed herself to consciously consider it an actual possibility. The thought made her wince. Lord, but she was a pathetic creature.

E _nough foolish introspection_ , she thought to herself. She had already made a decision, hadn't she? There was no reason to continue to berate herself for things she had done, or not done, in the past. She was ready to move past the complicated, frustrating, infuriating problem of Sherlock Holmes.

"Um, hi. It's Molly, right? Molly Hooper?"

She looked up in surprise to see a vaguely familiar figure standing hesitantly by her table with a cup of coffee clasped in his hands. He was about her own age with wide blue eyes and black spectacle frames. He had dirty-blonde hair that had started the inexorable middle-aged retreat toward the back of his head, but it was short and neatly trimmed. "What? Oh, I'm me - I mean, I'm Molly." She huffed a little and then laughed. "Yes." She enunciated carefully. "It's Molly."

He smiled. "I'm David Masters. We met at Robbie and Gina's dinner party last month?" He tilted the sentence up at the end, making it a question.

"Yes, of course," she said, narrowing her eyes in vague recollection. And it suddenly fell into place who he was and, most likely, why he was here now. Gina was the consummate match maker. She'd been telling Molly for ages that she had someone from work who she'd like to pair her up with. "Right, yes, I remember. Hello."

"Oh, good. I made an impression then." He smiled and hesitated for a beat. "Do you mind if I - ?" He gestured to the seat across from her with his eyebrows raised in query.

"Yeah, of course, please do." She was smiling at him, but all her usual social anxieties flared violently and immediately to life, and she sighed inwardly. Oh, that's right;  _this_  was why she never met anyone new. It was such a painful process, this stumbling bit during the those first moments when you tried the other person on for size before either putting them back in the box and walking away, or walking around in them a bit and  _then_  putting them back in the box and walking away. Few and far between were the ones that she wanted to wear out of the shop. Sherlock's face popped into her head, but she batted it irritably away and forced herself to focus on the keen face of the man across the table from her.

"Um, so, how do you know Robb and Gina?" she asked, casting around in her head for something to talk to him about just to keep the long silence from settling over them too quickly.

"I'm in Accounts Payable with Gina," he said, spinning his cup in his hands. He bit his nails, she noticed. "And just so you know, it's not nearly as exciting in real life as it is in the movies."

She managed an appreciative chuckle. "Well, I work in the morgue all day. And you know what they say about that."

He wrinkled his brow in curiosity and took a sip of his coffee. "No, what's that?"

She grinned. "Everybody's dying to get in."

He blinked and she felt stupid. "Oh, right," he said, nodding too hard with a forced smile. "That's funny."

She shifted in her seat and glanced out the window. "Well, you know, gallows humor and all that. You get kind of inured to it after a while." Well this was going smashingly. Maybe it was time to consider the possibility that it wasn't her fixation on Sherlock Holmes that had kept her from any real sort of romantic life for all these years, but rather her complete inability to function like a normal human being around other normal human beings.

"Yeah, yeah, I get that," David was saying. He leaned his elbows on the table, regarding her seriously. "It must be tough to have to deal with death all the time."

"Well, you know." She buried her face in her coffee cup, not caring now that it was too sweet. Any excuse to keep from having to have this conversation. She'd be lying if she agreed with him, but she'd look downright ghoulish if she told him, quite honestly, that it didn't bother her in the slightest. Death was death. It was just as much a part of living as being born, and no one ever got to do one without the other. But no one wanted to hear that. She knew most people expected her to be sober and solemn and to look on her job in the same way as a funeral home director, but it wasn't the same, not at all. She solved mysteries, and she was damn good at it, too. And sometimes she did it to the tune of her old Spice Girls CDs. It wasn't that she was disrespectful of the deceased. She just knew, better than most, that all of the important bits of the person's life had already happened long before the body came to her morgue.

"So, listen, Molly - " David was spinning his coffee cup again, studiously avoiding her eyes. "There's this great digital media exhibition coming up at the Tate next week. Do you think -"

"Molly, I need you."

Startled, she looked up and Sherlock was there, looming over her with his hands buried in his coat pockets. He was addressing her, but glaring daggers at David.

"Hullo, Sherlock," she said, pleased to hear that her voice came out steady and calm even though her stomach was doing cartwheels. She was  _not_  going to let him get to her today. She couldn't help it if his proximity set off every nerve-ending in her body, but she didn't have to show it, did she? "This is David Matthews - ."

"Masters," David corrected automatically.

Molly winced. "Of course, sorry. David  _Masters_  from Accounts Payable. And this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Good to meet you." David stood and stuck a hand out. Sherlock stared at with a puzzled frown until David flicked a glance at Molly and then let it drop to his side. "I, um, yeah, I've heard of you. You're that private eye, right? The one that came back from the dead?" He laughed.

Sherlock arched an unimpressed eyebrow in David's oblivious direction. "Consulting detective," he said, and then turned back to Molly. "I need a body."

"You do? What for this time?"

"I only need the hands. I'm doing a write-up on post-mortem decomposition of collagen and protein fibres in hyaline cartilage. But I'll take the feet too, if I may. Uh - please."

"So you don't need an actual body, just parts of one?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Just as I said."

"Sorry, Sherlock." She pressed her lips together in a line and shrugged. "Wish I could help you, but the only body we have right now is an unidentified probable suicide so we have to wait for the Yard. Besides, Howard is in charge for this one." She didn't bother elaborating for David's benefit that she was much more likely to be willing to dole out the bits and pieces than her colleague would be. "Do you want me to try to get familial consent afterward?"

He made a displeased sound through his teeth. "No, it will take far too long for all of that." He looked thoughtful and then brightened hopefully. "Are you expecting anymore today?"

"Well, they hardly keep to an appointment, do they?"

"No, unfortunately." He looked so legitimately put out that she wanted to laugh. "The body you have now, is that the one they pulled out of the Thames this morning?"

"That's the one, but I already told you, we have to hold it for the Yard - "

"Yes, yes, I know," he flapped an impatient hand at her. "I believe Lestrade said there had been some scavenger activity. Is there any chance I could take a look while I'm here? I'd like to get some images for the database of bite radiuses that I've begun compiling."

"I should think that's okay. You'll have to clear it with Howard, but as long as you don't try to make off with the poor man's appendages, I'm sure he won't mind." She realized belatedly that this entire conversation was probably a bit much for poor David Masters from Accounts Payable, and, indeed, when she glanced at him, he seemed taken aback by the whole discussion and showing a bit green around the gills, eyeing the milky surface of his coffee with displeasure. Oops.

"Oh, uh, sorry David." She winced. "I just - no, I mean -" She deflated with a long sigh. "Sorry."

"No, no. I'm fine," David said, but his smile flickered. "I should get back to work anyway. Invoices wait for no man, and all that." He stood and collected his coffee cup. "Nice to see you again, Molly." He didn't quite look at Sherlock as he turned away. "Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock merely watched him walk away without a word. As soon as the swinging door into the cafeteria rocked backwards, blocking out the view of David's retreating back, he dropped into the abandoned chair.

She tilted her head and gave him a long look. "You know damn well that we aren't going to start cutting bits off of an unidentified body without a confirmed cause of death. You did that just to annoy him."

"Did I?" He looked honestly puzzled, blue-green eyes wide and guileless, but with him there was no telling whether he was in earnest or not. He was terribly good at pretending to be other than what he was when the situation suited him to do so. She was all the past proof she needed of that.

God, but this man made her life difficult. He excited the most disparate feelings in her, and could take her from one end of the emotional spectrum and straight down to the other with nothing more than a quirk of his lips. She admired him, and she was attracted to him both physically and mentally, but she hated how much power he had over her. She wanted to take that away from him. He hadn't earned it, he didn't deserve it and most importantly, he didn't want it. It was the  _how_  of it that eluded her. If she could have simply convinced herself out of this silly crush, she'd have done it years ago and saved herself a whole lot of pain and even more embarrassment.

She looked at him now, sitting across the table and regarding her curiously, all dark and brooding, with glittering feline eyes that looked up at her from beneath his furrowed brow, and she felt her pulse rate speed up in spite of herself. She couldn't help the flashes of memory from that night in her flat when he had pressed her into the mattress with his body, all the heat and hardness of him bearing her down, drowning her in his scent and in the wet, hot slide of his tongue in her mouth.

The expression on Sherlock's face altered suddenly, and she realized with horror that he could read everything she was thinking just as well as if it had been written out on her forehead in permanent marker. Her cheeks flushed, and she closed her eyes. How very par for the course.

"Sherlock,  _why_  are you here?" she asked wearily, rubbing a hand across her face. She needed to remind herself that the same sculpted body that had been millimetres away from shagging her into the mattress was the same one that had stalked her across her own sitting room and then stomped out the door without a word. He was simply too complicated and too volatile for words.

"For starters, saving you from a very dull evening with...that person."

"David, she reminded him, scowling. "It's not your place to interfere with my private life, so stop it."

He looked sceptical. "You would rather I said nothing and let him ask you out to that ridiculous exhibition? Do you have any idea how bored you'd have been?"

She had to stop and take a couple of shallow breaths to get her voice back under control before she completely lost it and shouted the house down. "For one thing,  _Sherlock_ , it just so happens that I actually wanted to see that exhibition, boring or not. For another, I am perfectly capable of saying no if someone asks me to do something that I would rather not do. I am not a child."

"I never said you were," he said. "Would you have?"

The change in direction disoriented her. "Would I have what?"

"Said no to...that person."

" _David_ ," she hissed. "His name is David."

"I don't care what his name is. Would you have said no?"

She threw her hands up and leaned back in her chair. "I don't know, Sherlock, I really don't. Maybe. Why do you care? He's a perfectly nice man."

"Wrong," he said, the word short and clipped. "Didn't you see his hands? The way he keeps his nails? He's forty-three years old, never been married, and for good reason. He's a borderline narcissist with a severe pornography addiction and mother issues. He is most assuredly  _not_  nice.

She grimaced and looked away. If he said it was so, it undoubtedly was, but she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of asking him how he knew. He was a terrible show-off and the best - and really only - way she had of annoying him was pretending she wasn't impressed. "You don't think anyone is nice."

"I think you're nice." She blinked at him, but there was nothing in his expression that would indicate that he was mocking her. "You are so confusing, Sherlock," she said, feeling defeated without knowing why.

"Why is that confusing? You're always nice to me." He wrinkled his pale brow, full lips tugging down at the edges.

She sighed. This was going nowhere and she had to get back to work. "So that's the only reason you came up here? To save me from throwing away what little is left of my youth on a narcissistic porn addict?"

"Oh God no. I need you to come down to the morgue and sign out some tissue samples for me. Howard won't do it." He shot up out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box. "And I really do need those hands," he added. "And the feet too, so keep an eye out, would you?" He spun on his heel and headed out toward the door. "Come along, Molly," he called over his shoulder.

She sighed again and sagged in her seat, letting her frustration wash over her for an indulgent moment before she marshaled her forces and shoved it back down where it belonged. Then she stood and collected her half-full coffee cup, dumping it in the bin as she went after Sherlock's rapidly retreating figure.

It was Friday. It had been a very long week, and Molly decided right then and there, that tonight she deserved a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Deciding not to let Sherlock Holmes get under your skin anymore is a lot easier than *actually* not letting Sherlock Holmes get under your skin anymore. Molly has her work cut out for her. Also, I do so love a jealous Sherlock:)
> 
> A great big internet high-five to my rock star betas. Katie is stuck reading every single version of this sucker that I write, not to mention Katiefying it with her Grammar Hammer right before I upload. Allofmyheart reminds me, gently, that despite the overall similarity between our languages, Britain and the US do have quite a lot of cultural differences, and she helps me chisel out the ones that don't work. Trust me when I say this story would be nothing without their help. Love you guys!
> 
> Come on, raise your hand if you caught my Smaug reference in Chapter 9. I was so very proud of it!:)


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**  

John Watson was the best friend Sherlock had ever had.  There were plenty who might suggest that he was the _only_  friend he had ever had.  Sherlock wouldn’t disagree with them.  He did not like people in general, so the lack of friends wasn’t something that had ever bothered him too much.  He knew quite well that he was difficult to put up with, and pretty much impossible to live with, but again, he didn’t really care.  Friends had never been an important consideration before John had come along.

And now?  Well, in all honesty, nothing had really changed.  He still didn’t think friends were an important consideration.  But _John_  was an important consideration.  He had felt an uncharacteristic spasm of guilt when he’d watched his friend visit the site of his empty grave.  He’d seen the grief etched into John’s face and known there were sleepless nights behind him already, and most likely, many more to come.  He was convinced that he was doing the right thing - that finishing off Moriarty’s network was more important than any petty personal concerns - but he found that he was thankful, all the same, to know that Molly would be there to take care of John, and indeed Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, during his absence.  He wouldn’t be able to stay in touch, wouldn’t be able to keep tabs on them from afar, but he was leaving them in her hands.  He knew they would be well looked after.

Sherlock had been willing to put his own life on the line to ensure that John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were safe.  And though his plan to fake his death had been successful, he would have taken the fall regardless, and without the slightest hesitation, if it ensured the safety of the people he felt responsible for.

He might not _care_  in the strictest sense, but he wasn’t completely disinterested either.  Emotions were like a foreign land to him, unfamiliar and strange.  Not unreachable, perhaps, but distant.  Obligation was a satisfactory and comfortable alternative.  He understood the concepts of duty and commitment.  These were ideas he could grasp; they were tangible.  He did not begrudge John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson, or Molly, for that matter, their hold on him.  On the contrary, he felt that they had more than earned it by their unwavering support and unconditional acceptance.  Love, he could not fathom.  Loyalty, he would die for.

And now they were all safe, and he was once more ensconced at 221B and wanted nothing so much as for things to go back to the way they had been before the fall.  For some reason, however, John seemed bound and determined to spoil things entirely by swanning off and getting married.  Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that, at least in some small part, John was only doing it to be spiteful.  It didn’t matter in the slightest that John’s engagement had taken place nearly four months prior to his return.

Tonight, however, it was just the two of them enjoying a night in.  Or, rather, _John_  was enjoying a night in.  Sherlock was pacing around the flat like a caged panther.  The mental high of his most recent case had faded slightly, and he was now dwelling heavily on the digital media exhibition that opened at the Tate next week, and wondering if he should consider checking it out for his own research purposes.  He was most decidedly _not_  thinking about a certain pathologist or her _friend_  from the accounting department, whatever his name was.  He didn’t need to.  It wasn’t as if she would consider going out with him.  Would she?  He was almost certain she had more sense than that - almost.  Had she even heard him when he told her about the man’s personality disorder?  She hadn’t acted as though she was listening.  Perhaps he should remind her - but no, that wouldn’t do.  Then she might think he cared, and that would be unacceptable.  The problem of Molly Hooper was not going to be solved by getting more intertwined in her affairs.  Well, if she wanted to make that kind of foolish choice with her personal life, he supposed it was entirely her own business.  He couldn’t possibly care less what Molly got up to when she was on her own.  Not at all.

John was standing in the doorway to the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea in his hand, watching Sherlock pace and looking rather like a spectator at a tennis match.

Sherlock had been tracing a path back and forth across the sitting room for more than a quarter of an hour now.  He was too unsettled to sit down and relax.  He felt prickly and full of a restless energy that he couldn’t seem to shake.  If he were on a case, he would simply have taken up his violin and sawed away at it until the raw end of morning, or else sat perfectly still, and let the facts align themselves neatly in his mind until all the dots were connected and made sense.  This wasn’t a case though.  This was something else altogether, something he could just about outdistance if he kept moving.

“Do you think you could sit down for a minute?” John asked, blinking hard as if he were starting to get dizzy on Sherlock’s behalf.

“No.”  Pivot, stride, stride, stride.  It took three long steps for him to traverse the length of the sitting room, and then he turned on his heel and retraced the same path, over and over.  He was worrying the skin on the side of his thumb with his teeth as he moved, his eyes focused inwardly and a fierce expression on his face.

John pursed his lips and continued to watch his friend pace for a moment.  “Would you mind sitting down for a minute, anyway?”

“Yes.”  Stride, pivot, stride, stride.

John squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep, fortifying breath.  “Sherlock, I need to talk to you.  Can you please just sit down?  It won’t take me a minute, and then you can get back to abusing the carpeting.”

“You need to talk - then talk,” he said and then started gnawing the other side of his thumb.  Stride, stride, pivot, stride.  He wished John would stop buzzing in his ear and let him think.  Something was out of alignment, and he needed to focus, needed to figure out what it was that was throwing him so off balance.  It was an uncomfortable feeling, as though his skin was the wrong size for his body.

“I can’t have a conversation with you ricocheting around the room like a bloody Ping Pong ball,” John snapped.

“Not my problem,” Sherlock said, still without looking up.  Stride, stride, stride, pivot.  What was he missing?  Why could he not dislodge this knot in his chest when he thought about Molly and the man he had seen her sitting with today?  Why was he thinking about her at all?  It was none of his business who she talked to.  He shouldn’t care.  He didn’t care.  He wouldn’t care.

“Dammit, Sherlock,” John exclaimed, finally losing patience.  He chucked a cushion at him.  “I promised Mary I’d talk to you about this tonight.  Can you, seriously, not give me a minute of your time?”

“What is it, John!” Sherlock rounded on him, his temper finally worn straight through.  “For God’s sake, what is it that you must speak with me about at this exact moment?”  He was breathing heavily, irritation pouring through his veins. 

John’s jaw was clenched, his shoulders hunched as he glowered silently at his flatmate from across the room.  He didn’t say a word, he merely pursed his lips and cocked an expectant, if fierce, eyebrow.

Sherlock stopped, brought up short.  He glanced down at the cushion on the floor and then back up at the look of displeasure on John’s face.  Right, this was a bit not good.  John wanted to speak to him.  His _friend_  wanted to speak to him, and clearly, it was about something he considered important.  This was something he was expected to do.  It was the type of thing that friends did.  The rules he had begun to learn before he left were slowly coming back to him, with practice.  Without another word, he crossed to his chair and lowered himself into it as though that had been his intention all along.  He crossed his legs and regarded John evenly,  reining in his impatience.  “All right then,” he said, with a brief incline of his head.  “Do, please, tell me what is on your mind.”

John let out a long breath and took his seat in his armchair opposite Sherlock.  “Thank you,” he said.  He set his mug down on the coffee table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and regarding his friend seriously.  “So, I’m getting married in seven months.”

“Are you?”  Sherlock affected an inquisitive expression, one deceptively sleepy-looking eyebrow arched up toward his hairline.  “Many felicitations.”

John narrowed his eyes at him.  “Sherlock,” he said with a note of warning in his voice.  
  
Sherlock merely looked away.  John’s upcoming wedding wasn’t quite the last thing he wanted to discuss right now - Molly’s potential suitor ghosted through his mind’s eye for a brief, irritating second - but it was very far down on the list.

“D’you mind if I finish?”

“Oh, by all means.”

John took yet another fortifying breath.  “So, yes, a wedding, in seven months - _my_  wedding, to an _incredible_  woman - shut up, Sherlock - that I’m lucky to have found, who, by some extraordinary twist of fate, not only loves me, but can actually tolerate you, as well.  And really, I suppose I have you to thank for having met her.”  John looked surprised for a moment as the realization set in.  “Wow, you know, I never really thought about it before, but it’s true.  I never would have met Mary if you hadn’t thrown yourself off of a bloody rooftop.  Isn’t that funny?”

Sherlock’s lip curled almost involuntarily. “Isn’t it, though.”  He rolled his eyes and let his head fall against the backrest of his chair, affecting a level of boredom that he didn’t quite feel.  “Is this going anywhere any time soon?”

“ _Yes_ ,” John replied, giving his friend a dark look but ploughing ahead just the same.  “So, getting married in seven months.  The church is booked, the reception is booked, Mary’s asked her sisters to be bridesmaids.  We’ve got pretty much everything organised.  There’s just one last thing - “ 

“Officiant?” Sherlock interjected.  “Are you going with a service at St. Columba’s or Church of England?  I do know a man of the cloth from both, but I _think_  the Methodist minister might be doing five to ten for...something you wouldn’t want the officiant at your wedding to have gone to prison for.  Better stick with Church of England.”

“Uh, no, no,”  John said.  “No, we have an officiant already.  Mary’s uncle is a minister with the Church of Scotland.  No we’re all set there.  What we - er, that is, what _I_  need is a - “  
  
“I did some work for the owner of a limo hire service if that’s - “  
  
“Sherlock!” John said.  He looked as if he were unsure whether to laugh, cry or throw something else at him.  “No.  What I need is a best man.”

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and frowned.  “I don’t quite see -”

“You, you great git.  I want you to be my best man.  D’you think you can resist the urge to fake your death again between now and June?”

It was not often that Sherlock was taken by complete surprise, but this was one of those occasions.  

“You want me to be your best man?”  He had wondered if, by saying out loud, it would make more sense.  It didn’t.

John gave him a crooked smile.  “Yeah, of course.  Who else did you think I’d ask?”

Sherlock blinked.  “I can honestly say, I haven’t given your wedding any thought whatsoever.”

“Well, of course you haven’t,” John said, and pressed his lips together into a line.

It occurred to Sherlock, belatedly, that while what he had said was entirely true, this might also be one of those cases where unnecessary honesty was not going to be well received.  This was yet another of the many reasons why he needed John to live here in the flat with him, and not in a renovated flat in Battersea with Mary bloody Morstan.  Someone needed to keep him accountable.  Who, if not John?

“But, why would you want - me?”  Sherlock asked, puzzled.  No matter which way he tried to look at it, he couldn’t figure out John’s reasoning.  He had never had anyone make such a personal request of him before.

“Because you’re my best friend, you tosser,” John said, gruffly.  “And you’re the one person, other than Mary, that I want to have standing by my side on the most important day of my life, if, for no other reason than because you’re much less likely to piss anyone off if I keep you separated from the herd.”

“I am?”  Sherlock was stunned.  “Your best friend?”

John stared at him in disbelieving silence for a moment.  “You really have to ask?  Jesus, Sherlock, if you weren’t my best friend, how would I ever have been able to forgive you for committing fake suicide right in front of me.  You let me think I’d seen you die!”  He stood up, agitated.  “You let me think you were dead!  For two bloody years!”

“John, I only - “

John pointed a stern finger at him.  “If you tell me you did it for my own good one more time, I am going to punch you in the other eye.”

“Noted,” Sherlock said and leaned back thoughtfully into his chair.   He rolled the idea around in his head, working through the social logistics of John’s proposal.  “So I’m to stand up in front of a group of your friends and family and give a speech about you?”  He cocked an eyebrow at John.  
  
“That is traditionally one of the functions of a best man, so, yes.”

“That sounds… horrible.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still mad at you,” John said.  “That’s the whole reason I’m asking you to be my best man - because I know you’ll hate it.  In fact, this entire wedding is only being staged as an elaborate scheme to get back at you.”

Sherlock’s frown was so dramatic as to be comical.  “Well that hardly seems - “ 

“That was a joke, Sherlock.”

“Ah.” he nodded and then an unpleasant thought occurred to him and his eyes went wide.  “What about - “

“Stamford has already offered to take care of the stag night,” John assured him, with an amused smile.  “You don’t even have to come if you’d rather not.”  
  
“I’d rather not,” Sherlock said, with relief.  His phone rang and he glanced at John.

John waved a hand at him.  “I’ve finished with you.  You can answer it.”

He frowned down at the unfamiliar number on the screen and then pressed the phone to his ear.  “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Hullo?  Uh, is this Mr. Sherlock?”  The voice on the other end of the phone was that of a young man from East London, no more than twenty-five, no more than a basic education.  He’d been drinking.  His voice had the mildly-rounded edges that were brought about by at least three pints in a man with the tolerant constitution of a regular drinker.  The ambient background noise bore this out.  It was the din of a busy pub, grown boisterous late on a Friday night.

“It’s Mr. Holmes.  No - never mind.  What is it?”

“This here’s Will Martin, Mr. Sherlock.  Me and the boys is having a pint down the Three Harts and I, uh, I seen one ‘a them birds what’s on your list.  You said to call if we was to ever see ‘em in a bad spot, so, um, I’m callin’.”

Sherlock got to his feet, his conversation with John instantly filed away, adrenaline pouring through his veins.  It wasn’t a long list; the ‘birds’ in question were few.  “Who is it, Mr. Martin?  What does she look like?  Is she hurt?  Is she in danger?  Quickly, man!”

“No, no, she ain’t hurt, Mr. Sherlock,” the voice hastened to assure him.  “And nobody’s botherin’ her or nothin’.  She’s alright.  I, uh, wasn’t sure if I oughta even call, but you’d said, and, well, she’s got a few under her belt and, uh, this ain’t really the place for a bird to drink alone, if you know what I mean.”

He did, in fact, know what he meant.  

“Thank you, Mr. Martin,” he said.  “Keep an eye on her, if you would.  I’m on my way.”  
  
He hung up and lunged for his coat, not bothering to stop and put it on before he headed for the stairs.  
  
“Everything alright?” John asked, his forehead ridged with concern.

Sherlock ignored the question.  “Get your coat, John.  I’ll flag a cab.  We need to go and save Molly from doing something she’s going to regret in the morning.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, Molly, darling, what have you gone and gotten yourself into now?
> 
> Apologies for the lack of Sherlolly in this chapter, but it was time for Sherlock to spend some time with his Jawn. I promise to make up for it next time *insert sly grin here*
> 
> More thanks and my utmost appreciation to my tolerant and tireless muses, Katie F and Allofmyheart. I am burdened with glorious betas!


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Sherlock could feel John's curiosity boring into him during the cab ride across town, but he ignored him in favour of thinking dark thoughts about what he would do to anyone who laid so much as a finger on Molly while she was incapacitated. And then he distracted himself by thinking dark thoughts about what he was going to do to  _her_  for getting incapacitated in a dive like the Three Harts in the first place. He abandoned that line of thinking when his imagination took him to places he was not even remotely planning on visiting.

His fingers tapped a steady, anxious rhythm on the seat next to him as he watched the world pass by far too slowly outside the window. Traffic seemed busy for this time of night. He had never known a cab ride to Mile End to take so long.

"So, we're racing across town to save Molly from going home with some bloke from down the pub?" John asked once it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to offer any further, relevant information of his own volition.

"No."

"Oh, she's in danger then? Couple of big fellas giving her a hard time, threatening violence, that sort of thing?"

Sherlock cut a censorious look across the cab at his friend.  _No_." He over-enunciated the word, hoping John would get the hint and desist in playing this particular round of twenty questions. He didn't find it terribly surprising when it didn't work. John could be as tenacious as a bulldog when the mood struck him.

"She's not in any immediate danger? Oh, well, that's good, isn't it? Very good." John lapsed into silence, nodding to himself as he watched the cars outside the window go by. A moment later he turned back to Sherlock. "And you're sure we're not just headed out here to keep Molly Hooper from going on the pull at a dodgy pub on a Friday night?"

"John." He threw a note of warning into his voice, but John either wasn't paying attention or didn't care. Sherlock was sorely tempted to have the driver stop the cab and let the bothersome doctor out on the pavement.

John rubbed his chin, affecting a thoughtful expression. "Let me see if I've got this straight then. Someone who doesn't know Molly, calls you to tell you she's, what? Drinking? In a pub? And you feel the need to race out the door to go and save her?" He leaned back against the seat of the cab, eyeing Sherlock's dark expression with a hint of a smile. "Should I expect you to come running to my aid next time Stamford and I go out for a pint, too?"

"Do shut up, John."

"What I can't help but wonder," John went on, continuing to ignore Sherlock's scowl, "is how your man knew to call you in the first place. I mean surely you haven't added Molly Hooper to the list that your homeless network keeps an eye on… have you?"

"She did help save my life, if you'll recall."

"Yes, yes, she did do that, didn't she? John agreed. He was nodding again, and Sherlock briefly considered opening the door and dumping John on the pavement himself the next time the cab stopped for a red light. "And of course that entitles her to some special consideration from now on. I mean it's not as if you care about her or anything. You just feel indebted."

"Obviously," Sherlock said and then looked out the window to avoid the feeble-minded smirk on John's face. He had no idea what his friend was inferring, and he'd really rather not give him the opportunity to explain himself.

The cab pulled up to the kerb in front of the Three Harts, and Sherlock was on the pavement and heading for the door of the pub before the car had even come to a complete stop. "Stay with the cab," he called over his shoulder.

"What?" John called after him, as he ducked out the door. "What if you run into trouble?"

"Then I'll call for you. Stay with the cab," he repeated without slowing and then he disappeared through the old glass-paned door.

Thanks to London's stringent anti-smoking regulations, the dim interior of the pub was not filled with the acrid, eye-watering clouds of yore, but the Three Harts still had a stale scent and slightly gritty texture that made Sherlock's lip curl with distaste. What on earth could Molly mean by coming to this place alone?

There was a football match being broadcast on all four of the ancient televisions that were strapped to wobbly stands at irregular intervals behind the bar. Sherlock noted that the harried barman was careful not to hesitate beneath any of them for long. He could hardly blame him, especially when, a moment later, something significant happened on the telly and the entire pub burst into raucous cheers, shouting, stomping and pounding on the bar until the walls shook and the precariously-tethered screens trembled on their stands.

Sherlock eyed the assembled masses with much the same expression of repugnance he had spared for the setting. It was all such noise and bother. He would never understand the desire to congregate like this, to willingly give up a sense of self and get absorbed into an undifferentiated mob. Voluntary assimilation into a herd mentality was what it was. And assimilated they all were, almost to a man. Oh, he could see the variations, the small clues that alluded to a unique existence outside this wretched hovel, but they were muted, almost as if the patrons of this particular establishment had slowly begun to resemble one another over years of trading out barstools in the dark, stuffy room while actual life passed by on the pavement outside. What a repulsive waste of time.

"Mr. Sherlock?"

"Mr. Martin," Sherlock said with a nod of his head as the shabby-looking man in the rugby shirt approached him. He looked as Sherlock had anticipated he would - young and gangly with a protruding Adam's apple and unfortunate skin. To his credit, Martin had sobered slightly since their conversation on the phone, and his speech had regained some of its sharper edges. He was taking his assignment to watch out for Molly seriously. Sherlock reached out and shook the man's hand, pressing a fifty pound note into his palm and making a mental note to use him again in the future. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Anytime, mate," Martin said. He glanced at the folded bill in his hand, and his eyebrows disappeared into the raggedy edge of his fringe. "I mean, Mr. Sherlock. Thank you, sir." "Holmes," Sherlock corrected, his eyes already scanning the crowd.

"She's at the bar - er, Mr. Holmes." Martin jerked his chin in the direction of the far corner of the pub.

Now that he knew where to look, she wasn't hard to spot. Any genteel woman would have been an oddity in this crowd. Molly stood out like an angel at the gates of hell. She sat at the far end of the bar, looking absurdly prim and innocent. There was an empty seat next to her, but, based on the half-empty pint glass he saw sitting on the bar in front of it, Sherlock suspected that the vacancy was both recent and temporary.

With a scowl that he felt right down to his insoles, Sherlock stalked across the room to deal with the continuing problem of Molly Hooper.

The bar patrons startled and scattered as he pressed his way through them like a thunderstorm, glowering fiercely when a misplaced university prat swaggered in front of him with all the bravado of two pints gone, and a trio of chums at his back.

"Now is not a good time," Sherlock said with a razor-sharp edge to his voice. For a brief moment, it looked as if he might need John's assistance after all. Then the boy paused long enough to take in the dangerous expression on Sherlock's face, blinked and mumbled something noncommittal under his breath, and then swaggered off in a different direction, drawing his friends behind him like the wake of a ship.

Sherlock slid into the space between Molly and the far wall and waited for her to notice him.

There was a glass on the bar in front of her, half-full of dark amber liquid that, in an establishment like the Three Harts, couldn't be anything more elaborate than a cider and blackcurrant. It wasn't her first, he noted. The discrete series of overlapping rings that smudged the pitted bar top in front of her bore that out if her flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes weren't already sufficient indicators. This was her third cider, he surmised, and eyed her speculatively. Frankly, he was astonished that she was still upright.

"Good golly, Miss Molly!" boomed a decidedly American voice, as a body dropped into the vacant seat to Molly's left.

Blonde, ruddy-complexioned and between thirty-five and thirty-eight years old. No sign of a wedding ring, so, at his age, probably divorced. In London on business? No, he was an expat, hadn't lived in the States for more than ten years, but he hadn't been living in London long either, his accent was too indeterminate. Most likely traveled for a living, then. He wasn't tall, and he would barely have reached Sherlock's chin had he been standing. But, of course, he wasn't standing. He was leaning sideways, draping himself rather dramatically across Molly's shoulders. "Did you miss me, doll?" he asked, his words slurring together.

Molly giggled, for God's sake, and Sherlock exhaled loudly through his nose. This was - well, he didn't know what this was - absurd? Foolish? Pointless? Embarrassing? For both of them, and in spades - yes.

Now the troglodyte had his face pressed up close to Molly's cheek and was, presumably, whispering sweet nothings into her ear rather than merely slobbering all over her face, which is what it looked like he was doing. Enough of this nonsense.

"Molly." He tried to keep his voice calm and even. He was pretty sure he failed.

She jerked her gaze up at him, bright eyes wide and shining. "Shuurlock! Issat you?" Her face broke into a smile, radiant as an unexpected burst of sunlight on a cloudy day. "Ahm sho glad to shee you!"

"You are, are you?"

"Yesh! Yesh, of coursh ahm glad to shee you!" She turned sideways on her barstool, facing him so that she was talking directly into his abdomen. She spoke slowly, attempting to enunciate her words with the elaborate effort of an inexperienced drunk. "You shee, ah would like to commit a crime… no, wait, thash not right." She paused and frowned and then flashed that effervescent grin again when the words came. "Report! Thash it. Ah would like to report a crime...posshibly shtill in progressh!" She stabbed her finger into the bartop for emphasis and nearly upset what was left of her drink.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, both horrified and fascinated all at once.

On the other side of Molly, her erstwhile American friend had finally caught on to the fact that his companion had moved on to bigger and better things and seemed to be contemplating whether or not he should attempt to do anything about it. Sherlock decided to continue ignoring him until the lout decide which way he was going to come down on the subject.

"You want to report a crime?"

"Thas what ah shed, so yesh." Molly gave a decisive nod, which nearly dumped her sideways out of her chair. She recovered before Sherlock had to make a grab for her, and then she seemed to rediscover her drink, reaching for it with her eyes narrowed in determination.

Sherlock headed her off, neatly snagging the glass before her uncertain fingers could make contact. He nodded to the barman, and when the man wandered over, merely thrust the glass at him. "Here. I believe my friend is done for the evening."

"Shuurlock Holmesh!" Molly exclaimed, slapping her hand hard to the bartop. "I fink shomeone hash put a shpike in my drink!"

"I think someone has put alcohol in your drink," Sherlock replied and glanced back at the barman, who was sticking around to watch Molly with irritating amusement. "How many of these has she had?" he demanded.

"That'd be her fourth," the barman replied, and then stepped back with a frown, causing Sherlock to wonder just how dire his own expression must be, though not, especially, to care.

"Is it, then," he said, fairly hissing with displeasure. "Not, perhaps, one too many for someone her size?

"Ah shpilled one", Molly said, with a grimace, and gave him an awkward shrug. Not even being completely blotto could stop Molly Hooper from feeling guilty if she had a mildly plausible reason for it.

"Right, so shall I close out her tab then?" Sherlock reached for his wallet.

The barman shook his head. "No fear, mate. The gents have been good to her tonight, they have."

"Have they?" Sherlock said. He directed an icy glare at the small handful of men that sat near Molly's end of the bar. All of them were suddenly very interested in the contents at the bottom of their glasses. "Right. Come on then, Molly." He secured an arm under her shoulders, stooping uncomfortably to accommodate her slight size. Most unhelpfully, she sagged against him, mumbling something incoherent.

Her drinking companion seemed to have finally decided that he was drunk enough to get involved, and he lurched heavily to his feet. "Hey, there! The lady and I were having a nice time."

"Possibly so," Sherlock said, trying to manoeuver around the man with Molly a nearly dead weight against his side. "But she is leaving now. I highly recommend you do the same."

"Oh, you do, do you?" The American had taken a wide stance, his chest pushed forward and chin outthrust like the comic book version of a mindless thug.

He was directly in Sherlock's path, and other than dumping Molly on the ground while he took care of her  _friend_  here, he really only had one viable option open to him. With a bored sigh, he stooped and hooked his free arm behind Molly's knees, forcing them to buckle so that she collapsed, gracelessly, into his arms. He stood again, this time carrying her across his chest. She was heavier than she looked.

"You're not going to move, are you?" he asked the man, already resigned to the answer he knew was coming.

"Not a chance, dude. That's my girl you got there, and I'm not done talking to her yet."

" _Your_  girl"? Sherlock said with an almost pitying shake of his head. He gave the idiot one last chance to back down while he shifted Molly into a less precarious position, settling her more comfortably in his arms. She leaned her head against his chest with her eyes tight closed and then fisted the collar of his coat into her hand, holding on so tightly that her knuckles whitened. He frowned down at her, but then returned his attention to the determined imbecile still posturing like a buck in rut, and still standing directly between him and the door. With one last glance, Sherlock calculated the necessary points of weakness and then took a step forward, bringing his foot down hard on the man's instep. Then, as the moron instinctively jerked forward with a roar, Sherlock lifted his foot again and aimed a swift backwards kick at the back of his right knee, sending him crashing to the ground with a pained cry.

"Come on then, Molly," he said, and he stepped over the writhing form on the floor as he headed for the door.

John was still standing by the kerb, leaning against the cab and wearing an expression that was from some odd place on the continuum where annoyed, bored and bemused intersected. When Sherlock came out of the Three Harts with Molly Hooper in his arms and his coat flapping behind him, John's eyes went wide as a matched set of saucers.

"What the hell - ?"

"Move, John," Sherlock barked and he leapt out of the way so that Sherlock could lower the mumbling form of Bart's junior pathologist to the seat of the cab

"Is she alright? What happened? Does she - ?"

"She's fine. She's drunk. She doesn't need medical attention. She needs water, paracetamol and sleep, in that order." Sherlock backed out of the cab and checked to be certain that Molly was comfortably situated, or at least not likely to go crashing to the floorboards the first time that the cabbie had to press the brake. He turned to John. "Get another cab. I'm going to take her home and see to her until she can take care of herself."

"You're going to - what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm not going to repeat it," he said. "I'll be back at Baker Street in a few hours." He ducked back into the cab, and it roared away into the night leaving John Watson standing on the pavement, watching after them as they disappeared around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Think there's any chance that Sherlock's figured out why he feels the need to rush to Molly's aid? Based on historical data - probably not.
> 
> So, more jealous!Sherlock this week, with a side of drunk!Molly (who, I admit, I am inordinately fond of).
> 
> In honor of the recently announced air-dates for Series 3 (and also because I was already planning to), I am going to double post this week. Chapter 13 today, chapter 14 on Wednesday. I hope you will all be able to contain your excitement.
> 
> Thanks you for all the kind and encouraging comments! I would keep writing even if I were the only one reading, but you guys make it so much more fun!
> 
> As ever, my abiding gratitude goes out to Katie F for whacking the heck out of the story with her mighty grammar hammer, and also for *gently* recommending that I trash half a chapter without using the words 'it' and 'sucks'. I am speaking to her again because, as it turns out, she was TOTALLY right. And a very understated, but heartfelt, 'Ta' to allofmyheart for Britishifying the heck out of this bad boy, and not laughing her head off (at least within my hearing) at some of my more ridiculous misconceptions. Bless, y'all.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Never, Molly decided,  _never_  had another human being ever felt this wretched. She had done post-mortems on people who were in better shape than she was right now. And the worst part of it - the absolute  _worst_  part, more awful than the churning stomach and pounding headache, worlds away from the foul taste in her mouth and the ghastly smell that was coming off her ruined clothing - was that Sherlock Holmes had been there for the whole bloody aftershow. Not only had he seen her this way, which was bad enough in and of itself, but he'd also escorted her home in a cab, carried her up the stairs to her flat and then stuck around while she was occasionally, and violently, sick. On top of the physical discomfort, the humiliation burned in her chest like a supernova. She was never going to be able to leave her flat again.

Of course, last time she'd checked, the reason for her mortification had still been in the flat with her.

A couple of hours before, she'd managed to stagger out of bed and make her way into the kitchen in search of water and pain killers. She'd been absolutely gobsmacked to find him still there, lying stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep with one of her forensic journals open on his chest. Miserable as she'd been, she had still paused for a moment to examine his face as he slept. In all the years that she'd known him, she'd never seen him truly at rest. He looked younger, almost boyish, and more relaxed, with the usual tense lines around his eyes and mouth softened by sleep. It made her chest feel oddly tight to see him looking so vulnerable. Her fingers had itched to reach out and brush a hand through the dark curls that tumbled across his forehead, but she resisted the urge, balling her hands into fists instead.

Moving as quietly as she could to avoid waking him, she turned to go into the kitchen.

"I left water and paracetamol on the table by your bed."

The deep rumble of his voice was wholly unexpected in the stillness, and it nearly startled the life out of her. With a cry, she flung herself backwards against the wall, adrenaline flooding her body as her head started pounding in earnest. For a moment, she was afraid she was going to be sick again. She fought the urge down and slowly regained her composure, wondering, not for the first time, what he was  _doing_  there. "Th-thank you," she managed to stammer while her heart tried its level best to pound its way straight out of her chest. He hadn't so much as opened his eyes.

She swallowed hard, her throat burning. "I'm alright, Sherlock, really. You don't have to stay."

He cracked an eye at her then. "I'll stay. Go back to bed."

And, because it made more sense than standing there and trying to figure him out, she had gone.

Now she wondered through the pain and queasiness, whether he was still out there and, if so, how long she could hold out before she'd have to leave her room again. If she were lucky, maybe she would just die in her sleep and be done with it. How was she ever going to manage to look him in the eye again after this?

She flipped her pillow over and buried her face in the cool side of the fabric, wishing desperately that she had at least managed to black out the previous night. Remembering made it all so much worse.

It hadn't been her intention to get completely pissed when she'd decided to go to the pub. She hadn't wanted to drown her troubles in the bottom of a glass or anything as dramatic as that. She'd only hoped to relax for a little while, to blunt the rough edges of the tension that seemed to be a permanent aspect of her personality these days. And she'd wanted to do it  _alone_. She didn't want to risk running into anyone from Barts, and she definitely didn't want to run the risk of encountering anyone from Baker Street. She'd chosen the Three Harts as a likely spot for its relative distance from both, as well as for its lack of pretension. She hadn't wanted to go somewhere posh. She'd just wanted to have a leisurely drink and be left alone. Any other time, she would have just gone home on the Tube, as usual, and had a drink with Toby, but there was a fine distinction between being alone and being lonely. She hadn't wanted to be lonely for a change.

It was certainly a challenge to feel lonely in a working class pub on a Friday night with a match going on the telly, but she'd managed to keep to herself until the American chap dropped into the seat next to hers and started chatting her up. By then, she'd already finished her first cider and blackcurrant, which made his suggestion that she allow him to order her another of the same seem like a much better idea than it likely would have even a quarter of an hour earlier.

Even at the time, she hadn't been sure what she thought of Mike Richardson from Chicago. He'd seemed pleasant enough, though a bit boisterous for her tastes. The smiles and flirtatious glances he had thrown her way had been flattering, but they'd felt so strange and unfamiliar that she'd experienced a pang of self-pity at how grateful she had been for the attention. Still, over her personal limit or not, she had never really considered leaving the pub with him. That hadn't been the point of going out, and she hadn't ever been that kind of girl. At thirty-three, she was starting to suspect that she never would be.

Mike had started making the usual suggestively oblique comments shortly after she'd managed to spill the entire contents of her third Cider and Black on the bar. Really, she just couldn't take herself anywhere. He'd laughed in amusement rather than ridicule and then helped her mop up the spill with a bar towel, all the while relaying a self-effacing anecdote about a pot of coffee and a board meeting and freeing her from her horrified chagrin. And then he had signaled the barman and asked him to bring her another of the same. "I don't know how you can stand that stuff," he'd teased her with a mock shudder. He leaned his shoulder into hers for a gentle bump. "I mean, good golly, Miss Molly, if all you want is a cider with a bit of syrup in it, I think I have some cherry cordial back at my flat - "

Then, before she'd had time to decide just what she was going to do about Mike, if anything at all, Sherlock had inexplicably shown up at her elbow to glower down at her with stark disapproval etched into the lines of his face. And as much as she had not wanted to see him, she had still felt a birdlike flutter of pleasure when she looked up and saw him standing there.

She wondered if she had experienced some suppressed traumatic event as a child that made her such a glutton for punishment.

Much of her memory of the prior evening had a vague, dreamlike quality to it, the edges of realism blunted by the disassociating effects of the alcohol that had warmed her blood. She dearly wished that she could convince herself that at least  _some_  parts of it had been dreamt rather than lived. But no matter how fervently she might want it to be the case, she had to acknowledge that not even her worst nightmares would have caused her as much discomfort and misery as that twenty-minute cab ride across London.

The motion of the car, coupled with the unfamiliar amount of cider and sickly-sweet cordial she had in her stomach, had left her prostrate and sweating, stretched out on the car seat and praying desperately that they would make it back to her flat before she completely embarrassed herself by being sick all over Sherlock's very expensive-looking shoes. The car went over a jarring bump, and Molly clung to the seat by her fingernails, pressing her face into the upholstery with a moan.

Her clip had been lost somewhere along the way, and now her hair was unbound, hanging loose and all but completely covering her face. She wanted to push it back, but felt certain that if she attempted any unnecessary movement right now, it would not go well for Sherlock's shoes. So she closed her eyes and focused instead on breathing in and out, swallowing hard against the unpleasant, vaguely plasticky scent of the seat cover. She felt a whisper of movement and a quicksilver touch to the back of her ear, and realized with a start that Sherlock had reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear. She risked opening her eyes to look up at him, but he was already turned away, looking out the window with his knuckles pressed hard against his lips.

By the time they had actually arrived at the door to her building, she'd been done in. She vaguely recalled the cabbie helping Sherlock lever her out of the cab. She wanted to crawl under her bed at the memory of it. She'd been no help whatsoever as Sherlock guided her to the steps. Then the realization that her keys were nowhere to be found had resulted in a frantic, fruitless search through her pockets and bag. She had dumped the contents on the ground, flinching at the realization that, in addition to her wallet, phone and a surprising number of breath mints, she had also flung three tampons and her birth control pills on the steps under Sherlock's watchful gaze. He made no sign that he had noticed them, but even inebriated as she was, she couldn't pretend to herself that he hadn't immediately catalogued everything.

She had almost allowed herself to wonder then what else could possibly go wrong but managed to resist the urge. Historically, any time she had ever given free range to that thought, fate, or karma, or just plain bad luck had dictated that some new, special kind of hell would come along as if for the sole purpose of proving to her just how much worse things could get, given the opportunity.

"Which of your neighbours will buzz you in?" he had asked as she had red-faced and hurriedly crammed all of her belongings back into her bag.

"Um, Forester in 201, but the key to my flat was -"

"Don't worry about that," he said, as he examined the labels next to the buttons. Finding the right one, he pressed it and then hauled her to her feet as the speaker crackled to life.

"Whosit?" said a suspicious voice after a moment. Molly took that as her cue.

"Hullo, Mrs. Forester," she said, narrowing her eyes as she concentrated on sounding sober and also on not being sick. "It's Molly from 303. I'm shorry - um,  _sorry_  to bother you sho - so late, but could you buzz me up, please?"

"Are you alone, dear?"

Molly grimaced. "No, Mrs. Forester. I - I've a friend with me." She widened her eyes meaningfully at Sherlock.

He looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment, and then blinked. "Er, yes. Good evening, Ms. Forester."

"Oh, well done, dear," Mrs. Forester said warmly, the nosey old bat.

Molly closed her eyes in horrified disbelief as the door buzzed and Sherlock nudged it open with his knee, still supporting her as she wobbled through the doorway. She sagged against the bannister. The two flights of stairs, which would inexplicably not stop spinning, faced her down like an impending jaunt up Mount Everest. She was woozy and nauseated and quite certain that the only way she was going to make it up those stairs right now was on her hands and knees.

Without a word, Sherlock came up behind her and stooped to lift her again. "Hold onto me," he said gruffly, without making eye contact.

With no sign that carrying her required any effort whatsoever, Sherlock started up the stairs with her tucked firmly against his chest. It was both awful and wonderful all at once.

She was self-conscious and knew, in a sort of academic way, that she was going to be humiliated by all this in the morning.

She fisted her hands in the front of his coat, as much to resist the urge to wrap her arms around his neck as to hold on to him. He was warm, emanating heat like a mobile furnace, and she burrowed her face into his shoulder to keep him from seeing how her cheeks flamed at his proximity. He didn't wear cologne, but he smelled of expensive soap and shaving foam and of a raw, masculine scent that was purely his own. She breathed him in and felt a wash of desire so intense it would have knocked her off her feet if she'd been standing.

At the top of the stairs, Sherlock had set her carefully on the floor next to her door and examined her lock with a critical eye. "This type of lock is absurdly simple to break into." He looked down at her with a frown, as if blaming her for having it, or, quite possibly, for the fact that such a thing existed at all.

"Came with the flat," she said with an airy wave of her hand.

"Do something about it." It didn't sound like a suggestion so much as an order from on high.

It was her turn to frown up at him. "Don't be bosshy."

He had reached into one of the inner pockets of his coat and come out with a small black case from which he extracted a couple of small metal tools. He inserted them into the keyhole as he spoke. "Of course, how ridiculous of me to think that you might want to avoid having a lock that a determined burglar would be able to pick in less than two minutes." There was a tiny sliding click, and his expression of concentration turned into one of smug satisfaction. "Less than one minute." He deposited the tools back in their case and slid them back in his coat pocket.

"Who'd want to break into my flat?" she asked with a heavy shrug.

"You might be surprised." He held out a hand and pulled her to her feet.

"I'd have to be."

Once inside her flat, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, became Sherlock Holmes, mothering hen. He nearly force-fed her a dose of paracetamol and then glowered down at her until she obligingly drank a full glass of water, hovering until the last drops were gone. He didn't have to carry her back to her room. Instead he herded her before him with his hands under her elbows until the front of her knees hit the edge of her bed and she collapsed face-forward onto her pillow with a heartfelt groan of pleasure. She toed her shoes off onto the floor and rolled into her duvet, unwilling and unable to do more before she gratefully lost consciousness.

She hadn't seen him anywhere in the flat when, half an hour later, she had bolted for the bathroom and been violently ill. Nor did she see him fifteen minutes after that, when she had done it again, or twenty minutes after that, when she'd had to make the scramble for the toilet a third time. It seemed reasonable to assume that he had simply let himself out after dropping her off, but then, of course, her foray into the sitting room had proved otherwise. She assumed he felt that he was doing her a favour by not acknowledging her frantic trips to the loo, and really, she supposed he was.

His being there at all didn't make the slightest bit of sense to her, but trying to reason out his motives only made her head ache worse. She would talk to him about it in the morning and figure out just what he meant by abducting her from her night out and treating her like she'd needed to be rescued, even if, in this particular case, she actually had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've only ever been that drunk once in my life and the day after was *unpleasant*. Poor Molly! Good thing she's got the weekend to recover - she's going to need it. Now if only her other problem would resolve itself so easily... Anybody want to place the odds on whether or not Sherlock gets things figured out in Chapter 15? Thanks to all of you wonderful readers for being so patient with the slow progression of things. Getting Sherlock Holmes to admit to himself that he has feelings AT ALL is a challenge, getting him to admit to himself that he's in love with Molly Hooper is going to take a bit longer.
> 
> Katie F and allofmyheart continue to be my spirit animals - patient, tolerant, erudite, grammarians that they are. I salute you both with the highest of fives.
> 
> Next chapter goes up on Sunday!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

It was still dark when Molly’s wretched cat decided that Sherlock had been taking up the best seat in the house for quite long enough.  Toby, who Molly clearly overfed, landed square on his chest.  Sherlock jerked out of a dead sleep with a muffled oath and then glared down his nose at the remorseless feline who, far from seeming intimidated, merely sat back on his haunches and glared back.

“I have never liked cats,” Sherlock said and rolled sideways, dumping Toby onto the carpet with a satisfied smirk.  No doubt Molly would have had choice words for him regarding his treatment of her pet had she had been present, but he doubted she would be up and about any time soon.  Considering the extent of her intoxication the previous night, he rather doubted Molly would be back to her usual cheerful self again before the weekend was over, if she made it out of bed at all.  She really had no business drinking if this was going to be the result.  What would she have done if he hadn’t come along to carry her out of there?  Let the American take her home?  He frowned at the prospect.

He sat up and rubbed the residual sleepiness out of his eyes with the heels of his hands.  He had not slept well on Molly’s sofa, but then he rarely slept a full night, regardless, so it was no especial hardship.  He had, at least, had the opportunity to catch up on an recent article regarding the use of the clavicle bone as an alternative medium in forensic toxicological analyses.

Rather than beating a tactical retreat, Toby had instead decided to try a more ingratiating approach and was winding his way around Sherlock’s bare feet in a steady figure-eight, making a sound deep in his throat.

Sherlock grimaced at the quantity of hair that was already dusting the cuffs of his trousers and attempted to nudge the furry little pest out of the way with his toe.  Toby, not to be dissuaded, merely changed direction and ratcheted up the volume on his verbal grumbling.  

“You are not improving my opinion of your species as a whole,” Sherlock said, glowering down at the unconcerned cat.  Toby merely flicked his ears and kept winding.

Sherlock sighed and got to his feet.  “She feeds you in the morning, I take it.”  He stepped over the annoying beast and went into the kitchen to dig through Molly’s cupboards for cat food and a can opener.

With the obnoxious animal temporarily distracted by its revolting breakfast - really, how anyone could bear to keep an animal in the house was mystifying - Sherlock crept softly into Molly’s darkened room to retrieve the glass of water that he had placed there the previous night.  He was gratified to see that she had taken the paracetamol he’d left for her, and the glass was empty as well.  He replaced the pills with another dose and took the glass back into the kitchen to refill it.

He refused to examine his motives for playing nursemaid to a hungover pathologist.

It wasn’t as if he blamed himself.  Just because he had never known her to behave in this manner before, it did not immediately follow that her evening of uncharacteristic carousing was in any way his fault.  She was a grown woman, was she not?   He remembered the sensation of her bare thigh beneath his fingers, his hand cupping the rounded curve of her backside as he pressed her to him - a grown woman, indeed.  He blinked hard, dispelling the memory.  He was not responsible for her behavior.  And he certainly did not feel guilty, not in the slightest.  Why shouldn’t he help out a friend?  Why were his reasons for doing selfless things called into question when such magnanimity was merely expected of others - lauded in fact.  He was not looking forward to third degree that he was likely to get from John after this.

The thought made him scowl even as he skirted the end of Molly’s bed, intending to check that the blinds were shut full tight.  She would not appreciate waking up with the sun pouring into her eyes.

There was a rustle of movement from the huddled shape under the duvet.  “Sherlock, is that you?”  Her voice was rough with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, Molly,” he said, keeping his voice low.  “It’s still early.” 

“What are you doing?”  She struggled partway into a sitting position and then seemed to think better of it and sank back down onto her pillow.  “Ugh.”

“I’m closing your blinds.  The sun will be up soon.” 

“No, I mean what are you doing… here?  Why did you come to get me?  How did you even know - “

“I make it my business to know things.”  He interrupted her, wanting to discourage her line of questioning.  Now was not the time to have to explain the intricacies of his homeless network.  He couldn’t make out her face in the dim room, but he could tell she was facing him.  The fan of her hair was a dark band against the pale rectangle of her pillow.

“Why -”  She trailed off as if she were rethinking her question, then took a deep breath and ploughed ahead.  “Why are you being nice to me?  I’m nice.  You’re not nice.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle.  “In vino veritas,” he quoted and he heard her huff a gentle laugh in reply.  “Or whatever the Latin equivalent of a ‘Cider and Black’ might be, at any rate,” he added.  “I seem to be experiencing a moment of weakness.  Don’t worry.  It won’t last.”

“I know,” she said, sounding sleepy and...wistful?

He frowned at her shadowy form, puzzled as to why her certainty should bother him.  “Go back to sleep,” he said at last, with the most imperious tone he could muster.  “There’s water and another dose by your bedside that you can take in an hour or two.  After that, try to eat something.”

“Yes, Dr. Holmes,” she teased, her voice slurring gently as she burrowed more deeply into the blankets and drifted back towards the waiting shores of sleep. 

He paused in the doorway to her muddle of a bedroom, frustrated by the insistent pressure in his chest as he looked down on her slumbering form.  After a long moment, he became uncomfortably aware of the rapid thud of his heart in his chest turned away with a jerk.  He stopped again, startled when he heard Molly’s voice, sleepy, but clear, come out of the darkness.

“You confuse me, Sherlock Holmes, but I like you anyway.”

He stood wide-eyed for a moment, his hand clenching the door handle to her room.  “I - I like you too, Molly,” he said, at last, but her breathing had already regained its even rhythm.  She was asleep.  He swallowed hard and left.

When Sherlock walked through the door to 221B shortly before six o’clock in the morning, John was already up and sitting in his chair with a steaming mug of tea clasped in his hands.  

“The kettle’s just boiled,” John said, nodding toward the tea tray.  His tone was pleasant and he wore what Sherlock was certain was a deceptively placid expression on his face.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, eyeing his flatmate with a suspicious tilt of his head.  He poured a cup from the teapot, pausing to add sugar before he folded himself gracefully into his usual chair.  It didn’t escape his notice that John had brought out their formal tea service rather than simply pouring straight from the electric kettle as he usually did.  He was girding the encounter with an air of formality that Sherlock already found tiresome.  

“We need to talk,” John said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Well, at least he wasn’t going to waste time beating around the bush. 

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.” 

“No.”  Sherlock lowered his voice and scowled at his friend.  “I assure you, we don’t.”  He was experiencing the same oddly defiant feeling he had worn just prior to many of the more justified scoldings he’d gotten as a boy.  The sensation irritated him.

John’s expression hardened.  He wasn’t going to be dissuaded.  He sat his cup down and leaned forward.  “Don’t fuck with Molly, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked.  He wasn’t sure what he had been anticipating, but this wasn’t it.  “I don’t know what you’re - “ 

“I’m serious.  She’s a sweet girl with a crush and you’re going to destroy her.  She doesn’t deserve to be treated this way by you.”

“Not that it is any business of yours, John, but I have no intentions of ‘fucking’ with anyone.  I don’t know what you think happened - “

“I don’t think anything happened,” John interrupted.  “That’s just the thing.  I think you went back to her flat and got her settled, and then crashed on her sofa.”  He sat back in his armchair, looking inexplicably disgusted.  “I know, better than anyone, that you don’t do anything like a normal person, so believe me when I say, it never even occurred to me that this,” he gestured to take in Sherlock’s disheveled appearance, “was a walk of shame.”

Sherlock frowned and wondered if lack of sleep could be the reason that this conversation made no sense, or if it was that John had, in fact, lost his mind.  “So you’re angry with me for _not_  taking advantage of Molly while she was drunk?”

“No.  I am angry with you for behaving like a goddamned knight in shining armor and making Molly think that you care about her.”

“I was being nice - “

“No,” John interrupted him again.  “You don’t _do_  nice, Sherlock, not without an ulterior motive.  I know that, and you know that, but Molly still thinks you’re human.  Maybe this is all down to the obligation you feel because of what she did for you, but she’s not going to see it that way.”  John’s lips were pinched with frustration.  “None of us knows what goes on in your head.  Half the time I’m not sure you really understand it yourself, but even you, with all your social dysfunction, must see how your behavior might be taken by someone like Molly.”

John was really and truly angry with him, and it infuriated Sherlock to no end.  His lip curled in displeasure.  “You’re suggesting that she would have been better off if I had just left her to her own devices last night?  That, drunk and inexperienced in an unfamiliar environment, she should have just been left to figure it out on her own?”

“I don’t know.” John said.  “Maybe, maybe not.  But that’s not the point, is it?  The point is that you aren’t the person to decide that for her.  She’s a grown woman, and you’re not her - her anything.  If she wants your help, she’ll ask for it.” 

Sherlock decided that he was done with this conversation.  He was angry and annoyed with John for staging this _intervention_ , or whatever it was meant to be - and for calling his motives into question.  He put his mug down and stood. 

John wasn’t done with the conversation, however.  He shot to his feet and put himself in Sherlock’s way, forcing him to either go around or go through.  He was laying a wager on his friend’s dubious better nature to keep Sherlock from simply ploughing over him, but he was resolute.  “If you don’t care about her - which, by the way, I don’t believe for one second - but if you’re determined not care about her, then stay away from her, Sherlock.  Give her some room to figure out what she wants - what she _needs_  - because it’s sure as hell not you.”  He held his gaze for another second and then stepped deliberately out of the way.

Sherlock was rooted to the spot, his eyes focused on the carpet.  The pressure in his chest had blossomed into an acute ache. _What she needs… it’s sure as hell not you_.  Of course it wasn’t him.  Even if he did feel - well, how could he be what anyone needed?  People didn’t _need_  Sherlock - until they did, and then they didn’t need him anymore.  And want?  Why would any person want _him_?  Even Molly didn’t want what she thought she wanted.  “I stayed away for two years, John,” he said softly.

“Yeah, you did.”  John looked startled that Sherlock would voluntarily continue the conversation, but he rallied quickly.  “But that’s just it.  You asked her to do this great favor for you, showed her that, despite what Jim Moriarty might have thought, she does matter to you.  You made her think she was important, and that you cared.  And then off you go and she’s left holding onto this big secret for you, this link that you only shared with her.  What did you think she was going to do while you were gone?  Go off and find herself a nice bloke to settle down with?  That was never going to happen when Sherlock Holmes and his bloody superhero complex might have come riding back into town at any minute, was it?  You keep giving her hope, and that’s cruel, Sherlock.”

“I think you overestimate Molly’s feelings,” he said, knowing it wasn’t true.  
  
“What do you know about feelings?”  John sounded disgusted.  “You might be able to identify two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash, or tell a bus driver’s route based on the wear pattern of his shoe tread, but you don’t know the first thing about feelings.”

“Maybe I know more than you give me credit for.”

“I think you probably know less, actually.”

“This is none of your business, John.”  His voice trembled with the effort to keep his anger, his _emotions_  at bay.  He was starting to feel disgusted himself, but whether it was with John or his own weakness, he wasn’t sure. 

“No, of course it isn’t,” John agreed readily.  “It’s not as though you asked for my opinion, is it?  That’s not really your style.  Don’t worry.  I won’t bring it up again after this.  This is my one and only attempt to get you to do a little self-deduction.  Either Molly is important and you do care about her, in which case, stop dithering and tell her, for God’s sake.  Or she isn’t, and you don’t, and you leave her the hell alone.  Either way you need to make the call and stick with it, yeah?”  John turned as if to walk away and then stopped.  He took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips, looking up as if seeking guidance from the crown moulding.  Then he shook his head and gave a scornful laugh.  “I’m going to regret this,” he said.  He turned back around.  “You’re going to lose her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned at him and hated the thick feeling that rose up in his throat.  
  
“Yeah,” John said, nodding.  “That’s what I said.  You think Molly isn’t eventually going to find a guy that’s going to treat her right?  You’re going to hold onto this ridiculous idea that love is a weakness for too long, and when you finally get your act together, it’s going to be too late, and she’s going to be gone.

It was difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat.  “That’s none of my concern,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” John agreed.  “And if you don’t make it your concern now, it never will be.”  He looked at him hard for a long moment.  “If that’s your choice, then you have to stay away from her, Sherlock.  Stay away from her, and let her get on with her life.”  He shook his head again and then walked off to finish getting ready for work.

Sherlock retired to his room and closed the door behind him to wait until John left.  He needed the space of time before he had to speak to his flatmate again.  He spent the intervening moments pacing the floor with his arms wrapped across his chest, considering.

He wasn’t in denial.  It wasn’t as though John had laid bare the inner workings of his soul and shown him some heretofore-unacknowledged facet of himself.  He _knew_.  A different man had returned from the battle than the one that had set out for it, but he had known that from the moment he first stepped off of the train in London two months ago.  He knew that his time away had compromised his ability to distance himself.  But it was Molly, _Molly_ , of all people, who tore down the walls he was trying so hard to reconstruct for himself.  She did it without thinking, without intention and completely without effort.  It didn’t require so much as a flash of her irrepressible smile for the carefully-placed stones of his formality to come crashing down around him.

He wanted her.  He wanted her badly, and he hated the weakness that made him feel such a desperate longing to have her.  There was a dull ache that seemed a permanent part of him now, and he knew it was due to the perfectly Molly-shaped receptor that had been carved into that thing they called a soul.  It was a conspicuously empty space that pained him like an open wound, but he would not, _could not_ , reach out for the thing that would heal it.   

There was no room in his life for a complication like Molly Hooper.  There was no time or space that he could fit her into, even if he had wanted to.  He was simply not designed for such mawkishness.

Sherlock heard the front door close as John left for work and he lurched out of his bedroom as though trying to escape the thoughts that plagued him.  They followed him, however, as he stirred things up on his desk, accomplishing nothing more than adding to the chaos and disorder before he gave up and dumped everything back in a disorganized pile.  He considered tidying away the tea things John had left behind, but the mere idea of it bored him too badly to bear.  Instead, he threw himself across the sofa with his arm over his eyes and shuddered as he realized the mental reprieve from his last case was over and the whirling turmoil of his mind would give him no rest until the next one.  He itched with inactivity already.  He needed something, anything that would distract his mind - anything other than the problem of Molly, that is.

He tossed and turned on the sofa for a few moments, agitated and buzzing with energy, until finally, with a growl of frustration, he shot to his feet.  He would take a shower and then go to the lab, Molly be damned.  

The wounds on his back were entirely healed now, though there was some residual tenderness in the new scars that made him flinch under the heated spray of water.  That too would pass in time.  

He showered quickly, wanting nothing so much as to escape from the buzzing noise of his thoughts.  It felt like a race, like a competition with his own mind, to get to the lab and lose himself in some kind of work before his thoughts returned to - Molly.

What was it?  What was it that drew him so inexorably to her?  She had never been a challenge in the years before his departure.  He had thought little enough of her then, dismissing her easily from his mind as soon as she was out of the room.  But now?  Now he could not stop thinking about her.  On a case or off, his mind turned to her throughout the day, wondering and considering, until he shut it down angrily - or tried to anyway. 

Could it be nothing more than base sexual desire that pulled him?  He considered the possibility, allowing himself, for a moment, to indulge in the memory of her body.

He stroked himself almost without realizing until the first frisson of pleasure sang through him, making him shudder and gasp.  It had been such a long time.  Without letting himself dwell on his actions, he braced his left arm on the wall of the shower, and pressed his forehead hard against it, closing his eyes and curling his fingers into a tight fist.  The hot spray of the shower poured over his scarred back, spilling across his shoulders and streaming down his legs, as he thought of her with his cock in his hand.  

He remembered.  Oh yes, he remembered _everything_  from that night in her flat, but he also imagined.  He imagined what he had not seen - the smooth expanse of her creamy skin, the gentle swell of her small breasts tipped with pink nipples that hardened beneath his touch.  The mere idea of her naked body laid out in front of him made him groan, and his cock twitched against his palm.  He imagined himself down on his knees in front of her.  His detective’s mind wanted more information, more data, wanted to bury his face between her legs and discover her taste while she panted above him with her hands fisted in his hair.  He imagined bringing her to climax with his fingers and lips and tongue - imagined pleasuring her as he slowly pleasured himself with steady strokes beneath the sting of the shower spray.  His heart raced and his breathing became erratic as need, _want_ , rose up inside him like a cresting wave.  He imagined sliding into her, feeling the warmth of her body beneath him and around him as he explored her, cataloged her, learned her - and then it was all too much, and he came, hard, with a stifled cry.

He stayed in the shower, breathing heavily and waiting for his heart rate to slow.  The water was cooling, and soon it would be uncomfortably cold, but he made no move to turn it off.

The flood of endorphins that accompanied ejaculation coursed through his veins.  He, no doubt, experienced such release in the same way as most men - mitigating the gnawing, craving, burning desire that had predicated the sexual event in the first place.  Clearly, sexual interest did play some part in his preoccupation with Molly.  He desired her, physically.  There was definitely evidence to support that hypothesis, but that couldn’t be all there was to it.  It couldn’t be because his mind still drifted towards her, even now.   

His lip curled in disgust with himself.  ‘ _Caring is not an advantage_ ,’ Mycroft had once said to him, and he had agreed wholeheartedly.  Caring - sentimentality - was worse than useless.  It was a crutch and a distraction.  He could not be effective at what he did if he cared.  Caring was weakness, sentimentality nothing more than an affectation, and love - well, love simply didn’t exist.

He remembered something else Mycroft had once said.  ‘ _If you’re going to bury your emotions, my dear brother, you had better get a shovel and start digging_.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Oh, Sherlock - you see, but you do not observe! The evidence is right there, but you cannot deduce what you refuse to acknowledge.
> 
> It's decision time - the only question now is which side of John's advice he's going to fall down on. Any guesses? I will admit only that drama ensues next week!
> 
> Thank you to all of you who take the time to stop and visit my little universe each week!
> 
> My endless gratitude goes out, as it always does, to Katie F and allofmyheart, without whom, none of y'all would want to read this! They wield the mighty grammar hammer and the Brit-pick of proper vernacular with great, but benevolent power!


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Molly had heard that the hair of the dog was the best cure for a hangover, but she would just as soon have hit herself over the head with a shovel as ever look at another drop of alcohol, regardless of its theoretical merits as a palliative. She imagined that the overall effect would be similar and the shovel probably wouldn't leave a horrifying taste in her mouth that was still there three days later.

And what a truly awful three days it had been.

She had only ventured out of her bedroom a few times during the weekend, and then only to fetch more water and paracetamol, and to use her bathroom. Thankfully she hadn't needed to kneel on the cold tile floor again after the first night. Once she had woken in a cold panic with the realization that she had not yet fed Toby. Normally, he would have reminded her, vocally and insistently, of her lapse, but he had been conspicuously quiet, and she worried with sudden fear that Sherlock had inadvertently - or perhaps not quite so inadvertently, given his lack of enthusiasm for domestic animals - let him out of the flat. She staggered down the hallway to find her sofa blessedly free of any consulting detectives, with Toby curled into a circle in his customary spot.

"Well, aren't you the accommodating one?" she said, feeling a wash of relief as Toby sleepily blinked up at her. She could hardly believe that he'd left her alone all afternoon. "I'll just open a tin, shall I?"

She had frowned over the evidence of a previous feeding for rather longer than she should have before it occurred to her that perhaps Sherlock had taken the trouble to feed Toby before he left. There didn't seem to be any other reasonable alternative, barring a terribly considerate burglar whose tastes ran to more elegant spoils than anything that Molly would have had to offer in her flat.

Her head had hurt far too much on Saturday, and on Sunday too, for that matter, for her to even attempt to figure out Sherlock's motives for coming to her aid. By Monday, however, she was feeling more like herself, if still a bit peaky, and she could hardly think of anything else. Even her still-missing keys came in a distant second. She knew she was going to have to go back to the pub to try and find them, but the very idea of returning to the scene was enough to make her feel queasy all over again.

Dismissing altogether what his reasons for coming to get her could possibly be, she couldn't help but wonder  _how_. How had he known where she was? How had he found her? Very few of the employees at the hospital where she'd worked for the past five years knew who she was, and she certainly hadn't seen anyone at the Three Harts that she recognized - other than Sherlock of course. The only reasonable conclusion she could come to was that it was simple coincidence and he had happened to be there for something completely unrelated to her. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion, and it left her feeling a bit off her stride, like the one person at the party that didn't understand the joke. But, with effort, she quashed the sensation and tried to move on with her day. Which she managed to do for exactly fifty-three minutes.

Howard was out until noon for an appointment and Sanjay wasn't due in until ten, so Molly stopped off at her locker and then headed straight for the empty morgue. It was rare that she had the cavernous space to herself, and she relished the calm silence whenever the opportunity arose. There was a backlog of paperwork that needed addressing, so she settled behind her desk and tucked into it, pleased to have something definitive and concrete to focus her attention on. For a time the only sounds were the scratch of her pen and the hum of the fluorescent lighting overhead.

Nearly an hour later, she pushed back from her desk and stretched. It felt good to move the stack of forms from one side of her desk to the other. As an unexpected, and gratifying, bonus, she'd found photocopies for two of their unidentified bodies that showed that IDs had finally been made.

She looked them over out of curiosity. They were both foreign nationals with no record of an entrance visa into England, which seemed an odd coincidence. They were from vastly different parts of the world, however, and had died under completely different circumstances, so she supposed coincidence was simply a matter of perception. The middle-aged woman, Awurama Ngosa had died as a bystander in an unfortunate car crash. The boy, who Molly noticed with a pang was only just seventeen, had apparently committed suicide. Inured as she was to death in general, she was still saddened at the waste of potential in one so young.

It was pure luck that either one of them had been identified, she noted. They'd had no ID on them, been featured in no missing persons bulletins and had their prints run through Scotland Yard without a hit. It was only by the merest chance that both a fifty-three-year-old woman from the Lilongwe capital district of Malawi and a seventeen-year-old Turkmen boy had been tracked down through Interpol via records in their home countries. It was a decades-old arrest for passport fraud in the case of Awurama, and the boy, Mihail, appeared to have been picked up a few years back as a member of a youth organization with ties to gang activity.

Among the other paperwork were the disposal release forms for two other bodies, and Molly immediately thought of Sherlock's request for hands and feet for his hyaline cartilage write-up. Then she scowled. It wasn't her job to keep him in body parts. If he wanted anything from her, he could ask, or better yet, go through the official hospital channels himself for a change.

Suddenly tired of the great empty space of the morgue, she got up, grabbed her clipboard and headed for the lab. There were cultures maturing in the incubators that needed to be checked on today. She'd get them recorded and then stop for coffee.

She was only puzzled for a moment when she saw that the lights in the lab were already on. It was far earlier than he usually put in an appearance. Still, she wasn't at all surprised to find Sherlock hunched over his favorite scope in the back of the lab. He was a black smudge against the pristine white cabinets behind him.

If she had thought for one second that she could have backed out of the room without him noticing her, she would have done so. But even though he neither looked up nor in any other way acknowledged her entrance, she was quite certain he knew she was there.

Waiting for the inevitable humiliation was counter-productive. She might as well go ahead and get it out of the way now. She sighed and tried not to hang her head.

She tried a lot harder not to remember the warmth of his chest against her cheek or the way his arms had held her protectively close to his body as he carried her up the stairs. She tried especially hard not to remember how his heady, clean scent had made her knees feel weak. And then she tried not to remember his unexpected solicitude - bringing her water and paracetamol and feeding her cat. None of it made the least bit of sense, but then very little about Sherlock ever did.

"Good morning," she said, affecting an airy cheerfulness that she didn't feel. What she felt was awkward and embarrassed.

"Morning," he replied without inflection. He didn't look up from his microscope.

She worried her lower lip between her teeth and fidgeted, uncertainty plaguing her as it ever did where Sherlock was concerned. Which version of him was she going to get today? Would he be the same strangely gentle and attentive Sherlock from the other night, or the haughty and dismissive variety she was accustomed to? She called him 'capricious' or 'changeable' and convinced herself that it was merely a characteristic of his personality - an acceptable side-effect of his genius. Most people, she knew, called him 'damaged', or 'freak'. Only John just called him Sherlock. In any case, what he was these days was hot-and-cold running confusion. Since his return, she'd felt as though she was caught in the tide of violent storm - tumbling among the waves, unable to figure out which way was up. And then, just when she thought she had her feet beneath her, another wave would hit and send her under again.

Molly realized that she had been standing in the middle of the lab for a solid minute, dithering. She took a sharp breath. Best to go on and get it over with.

"Listen, I - uh, I wanted to thank you for - "

"No need," he said, cutting her off. He pulled his head away from the microscope long enough to make a note, and then went back to it. He didn't look up.

"Oh - okay," she said. She started to walk over to the incubators and then stopped again, feeling unsatisfied by the exchange. "Well, I appreciated it - that's all."

He did look up at her then, a bare flick of those knowing eyes, hooded and dark, from above the microscope. "I'd have done as much for any of my assets that were foolish enough to put themselves in that position. Don't feel the need to thank me. Just don't let it happen again."

She flinched, stung by his tone. "What?" She wasn't sure which part of his sentence made the least sense. "Your what?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, making a great show of extracting himself from his current project, and then turning to face her. "My assets," he said, over-enunciating the word as if she had simply misheard him. "My network of useful persons, if you will. I make it a point to keep tabs on anyone that I may have need of in the future. It wouldn't do to lose a valuable resource to one night of ribald debauchery in the back room of a dirty pub, now would it?" His pale face was as expressionless as a statue's.

Molly swallowed, feeling sick. She was sure she must be misunderstanding him. "What?"

He frowned. "What is it you're not understanding? You've proven yourself very useful in the past. I simply want to make sure that you're still around in case I need you again sometime in the future. That shouldn't be such a complicated idea, even for you, Molly." He flashed a humourless smile that did nothing to dispel the blankness in his eyes, and then turned back to his microscope. "I can't have my network spending all of their time keeping an eye on a desperate woman in the throes of sexual frustration, however, so please do stay sober next time you decide to pick up a stranger in a pub."

Humiliation burned through her in a hot, red wave. Her first instinct was to run - to get out as soon as possible, to get away before she broke the tears welled up in her eyes. She fought the urge, breathing hard against the pain that blossomed in her chest, telling herself that it wasn't as bad as it seemed. Surely, he wasn't saying what she thought he was. After all that they had been through - all that she had done for him - surely he didn't think so little of her as this.

"Wh-what are you saying, Sherlock? I thought - "

"You thought what?" He looked up at her again. This time his puzzlement had an amused tint to it. "You thought we were - something else? Something more? Friends, perhaps?" He affected a thoughtful expression. "I suppose you could call it that." He shrugged and went back to peering at his slide through the microscope. "It's not  _quite_  the same thing, but since you have so few others, I can see how you might think that it qualifies."

"Why - why would you say something like that?" She felt cold all over, as though her veins were filled with iced water rather than blood.

He looked up at her again, consternation etched into his face. "Like what?" And then understanding bloomed on his face. "Oh, right, I'm sorry. I sometimes forget that truth is no substitute for pretty fiction - to most of the common herd, at least." He leaned back and regarded her with dark, calculating eyes. "Do you prefer the lie, Molly? Did you think we were friends? Did you think you were special?"

She was taken back by the mockery in his tone and looked away. "You are always such a bastard, Sherlock." Her voice shook as she balled her hands into fists to keep them from doing likewise. She couldn't help the tears that welled up in her eyes now, but she hated them, and she hated him, and she wished to whatever deity might be listening that she had never met him.

"Am I?" He seemed unconcerned, turning his focus to the stack of slides on the table next to him, sorting and unsorting them like a card shark cutting a loaded deck. "Why do you think so? Is it because I didn't let you stay at the pub until you'd worked up the nerve to shag that American?" His eyes, blue-green and clear as ocean water, were cold and emotionless. "Or is it because I didn't shag you myself?"

Molly felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. She would have been less surprised, and much less hurt, if he had simply struck her. The physical pain would have been a blessing compared to such a dedicated assault on her spirit. It was a brutal, vicious pain that burned in her chest and made her feel small. With a mere flick of his words, Sherlock tore her apart. "Fuck you, Sherlock," she said through the crush of hurt and tears, spitting it at him with all the venom she could muster. "Fuck everything about you."

She was proud of herself for not breaking into a run until she was halfway down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I guess that clears up which side of John's advice Sherlock has decided to come down on - the idiot. Now, how long until he realizes how badly he's screwed up? Is he going to figure it out AND FIX IT before it's too late?
> 
> The idiot.
> 
> Bless every one of you who sends me messages and reviews. I adore you all. If you just read and never review, I adore you too! I am just so completely thankful that any of you take time out of your busy lives to play in my little world.
> 
> Katie F and allofymyheart, I adore y'all mostest of all. That you both put up with my awful grammar, complete inability to comma and vast ignorance regarding British vernacular and culture just fills me right on up with gratitude and the desire to squish you with exuberant fangirl hugs. I *won't*, I promise, but it makes me want to:)
> 
> And, I feel *horribly* guilty about doing it, because I KNOW I am leaving y'all in a *wretched* place, but this will be the last update until the new year. I AM SO SORRY. The holidays are going to be crazy hectic, and frankly, I need some time to pull ahead a bit. Given that the actual show runners left y'all hanging for TWO YEARS, I am hoping you won't mind giving me three weeks. At least some of you will have the new episode to look forward to in the meantime!
> 
> A very Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate and may your new year bring you good health, much love and much laughter.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

It was cold in the lab. He didn't remember feeling cold before.

After Molly's abrupt departure, Sherlock remained balanced on his stool, hovering over the microscope's eyepiece. He wasn't focusing on the slide now. He was looking out across the room without seeing it, substituting instead the memory of Molly's shocked expression, her face drained white as snow save for twin spots of livid colour that burned high on her cheeks. The sound of his own breathing seemed loud and laboured in his ears, and there was an uncomfortable pressure on his chest, as though a great weight was bearing down on him. He was surprised his lungs were still capable of expanding to take in oxygen.

Molly was hurt. He had hurt her. He breathed in and out through the vise in his chest, repeating those words like a mantra. Molly was hurt - he had hurt her. She was in pain and he had been the cause of it.

It wasn't the first time, of course, far from it. He doubted there was another person in the entire world who had caused Molly Hooper more pain than he had over the years. But it had never been on purpose before. He had never  _tried_  to cause her pain until now. It was as he had intended.  _'Stay away from her'_ , John had said, ' _let her get on with her life._ ' Well, that was what he was doing. It was for the best. He should stay away from her. She should stay away from him. There was no room in his life for the problem of Molly Hooper.

Molly was hurt - he had hurt her. He carved the words into his mind like a knife into flesh, scarring the surface - a permanent reminder of the smouldering bridge he was leaving in his wake.

The door to the lab swung open, and Sherlock felt something lurch in his chest.

It was only a puzzled-looking Sanjay.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes. Have you seen Dr. Hooper?"

"Yes." He thought how strange it was that his voice sounded normal when he felt as though he should be gasping for breath.

Sanjay's eyebrows disappeared into his shaggy fringe as the moment extended into silence. Sherlock knew Sanjay was expecting him to elaborate, and, for a change, it wasn't simple petulance that stayed his tongue. If he were to start talking right now, he wasn't entirely sure what he might end up saying.

"Um, do you know where she is?"

"No."

"Oh, okay." Sanjay hesitated for a moment, as though he might actively attempt to elicit more information, but then he seemed to recall who he was talking to and merely gave a short nod before disappearing back into the corridor.

Sherlock looked down at the slides he had stacked neatly next to the microscope. He'd been looking forward to getting these samples for weeks. Now, he found that he didn't care. What was it all for? What would any of it matter in the end?

He pushed away from the microscope and stared down at the pages of spidery notes he had scrawled across the lines on the notepad - one that he'd stolen from Molly's desk, of course. Then he turned, leaving everything where it was, and walked out of the hospital without a backward glance.

Sherlock barely recalled the trip from Barts back to the flat. His mind was chaos, the usual swirl of loosely connected thoughts that blurred past too quickly. At any other time, he would grit his teeth and battle through the static, fighting the disorder by taking up his violin, researching for a case, diving into an experiment - anything to soften the roar of his mind. Today, it was almost a relief to let the confusion wash over him. The buzzing, burning noise drowned out the image of Molly's stricken, tear-stained face. It let him convince himself that the weight that pressed down on his shoulders was from fatigue, that it was low blood-sugar that caused his hands to shake.

For a moment he considered calling down to Mrs. Hudson for some breakfast, but instead he turned towards his bedroom. His body ached with exhaustion; he needed to sleep. If some voice inside him also cried out for the oblivion that came with unconsciousness, there was no need to acknowledge it.

He dreamt of Moriarty.

The worst of the nightmares had eased after his return. Settling back into his old life had taken some time, but once he had, James Moriarty had ceased visiting his dreams as often. And even when the consulting criminal did stage an appearance now, it was nothing more than the flash of a pleasant smile beneath deranged eyes that haunted Sherlock's sleeping mind. There had been no repetition of the visceral horror that had followed him from the shadowlands all the way to Molly's guest room.

Until now.

Perhaps this was his penance for committing cruelty on such a pure heart. It was unquestionable that he deserved it.

The dreams were not always the same. There were many variations with many themes, and the bloody, lifeless bodies that he reached for with a breathless cry varied too. Most often it was John - all of the knowing, unswerving devotion leaking out of him along with the blood that pumped in progressively more feeble spurts from the hole in his chest. Sometimes it was Lestrade, sometimes Mrs. Hudson. It was even occasionally Mycroft or Molly. He had woken from one such dream of her - her diminutive form crumpled to the floor like a broken doll, with bold, red blood spreading like an inkblot across the snowy front of her lab coat - and had thrown himself to the floor of the bathroom, vomiting up the little food he had taken the day before, shaking from the horror of the scenario that his mind had created.

Somehow, it was worse when it was Molly. The others had at least been afforded some minor courtesy as one of his particular acquaintances. They had been given the benefit of his friendship, such as it were, and his devotion, loyalty and condescension. None of that may have counted for much in the grand scheme of things, but it was  _something_  to offset the guilt that their deaths would have brought. Molly had only ever been subject to obligation and frustration because of him. That any of them should suffer in his place was intolerable. That Molly, who suffered so much because of him already, should be harmed in his name, made him sick.

This time the dream was different. There was no body this time, at least, not yet.

He was back on the roof of Barts, staring out over the disinterested city. His heart thundered in his chest and tears ran wet on his cheeks. Behind him, Jim Moriarty stood silently. He didn't move or speak; he merely looked at Sherlock with sleepy eyes that saw everything.

This time Sherlock knew he was going to die. This time there would be no safe landing. This time there was no Molly.

" _Catch me when I fall_ ," he whispered into the tearing wind, but there was no reply, because no one was there to hear.

"Perhaps you can fly," came Jim's voice, loud in his mind despite the growing shriek of the wind.

He spun, but Moriarty had neither moved nor changed expression.

Dark locks of his own hair tumbled into his eyes, and he brushed them away, smearing wet streaks of salt-water tears across his cheeks. He turned back into the wind to keep his face clear, and saw on the ground below twin lines of people. He couldn't make out their faces, but he knew the dark figures against the wall. He listed them in his head - John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft. He blinked hard, wondering why the row seemed incomplete. Facing them, like executioners in a firing squad were a row of armed men, dressed all in white, their rifles trained on his friends and family.

"Time to dance, Sherlock," came the sing-song voice in his head again.

No escape this time. No safe landing.

He spread his arms and closed his eyes. The wind roared, and he was afraid.

Sherlock's dreaming mind did not have to manufacture the image of the London street rushing up to meet him as he fell. He remembered it.

The wind was screaming now, and he was falling. No escape this time. No safe landing. No Molly.

And then he jerked awake, sweating and breathing hard in the empty silence of his own bedroom.

It took some effort to extricate himself from the twisted mess of the sheets. His hair was damp and sticking to his forehead and neck, and it was easy enough to brush away the warm moisture on his cheeks and call it perspiration. Even his hands were pale and clammy, and they trembled as he stripped the sweat-soaked sheets from the bed and dropped them in a pile on the floor with a grimace of disgust.

It was mid-afternoon. John would be home from his shift at the DMS clinic soon.

Sherlock threw himself into the shower, rinsing away the remnants of the dream with violent effort.

When John came through the door an hour later, Sherlock was calm and dressed, if only in dry pyjamas and his dressing gown, and picking his way through Barber's Adagio for Strings at the window.

"Oh, hello," John said as he came in, unwinding his scarf. He held a bag of groceries under one arm. "I thought you were going to be at the lab again today."

Sherlock ignored him, pulling the bow gently across the strings, focusing hard on the delicate vibration against his skin and watching the notes move across the page in his mind.

"Are you going to be in tonight?"

Without lifting his bow, Sherlock shifted slightly and glanced at his flatmate.

Hasn't spent the night with Mary in three days, day off of work tomorrow - no need to get up early in the morning, new haircut, bag of groceries from the expensive market under his arm, smaller bag from the candle shop. Sherlock did the math in his head and realized that this must be an anniversary of some sort. Not their engagement. That had been nearly seven months ago - first date, perhaps. He also realized what John was actually asking him. 'Can you not be here tonight?' was implied if not explicitly stated. Well, that was too bad. He didn't feel like going out. If John and Mary wanted  _privacy,_  they could get it at her place.

"Yes," he said, and then turned back to the window and sank his mind back into the melody.

"Of course you are," John said. He went to the kitchen and shoved the groceries into the fridge without bothering to unpack the bag. Then, slamming the door rather harder than was necessary, he stomped off to his room.

Sherlock could hear him on his phone. "Mary? Yeah, 's me. No, it's fine. Listen, could we maybe stay at yours tonight instead? No, no - I'm still making dinner. Yeah, he's… yeah, exactly. Well you know -"

Boring.

Sherlock blocked out the hum of John's voice and buried himself in the notes, brushing away any thoughts that attempted to break into his concentration. It wouldn't last, it never did, but for a few minutes at least, he could occupy his mind with the complicated translation of cold black ink to warm, mellifluous sound.

Anything to not think. Anything to block out the silvery tracks of Molly's tears.

This was not him. This was not the man he had been. What did it matter if he made her cry? Why should his chest ache when he thought of her? Sentiment -  _feelings_  - what absurdity. He could not understand anyone having the desire for these sensations. What sense did it make to invite inevitable discomfort and pain? Caring was not an advantage. Caring was being complicit in your own downfall - willing subjection to pain and frustration. Emotional entanglements were anathema to his work and to his lifestyle. There was no room in his life for the kind of desperate want that he felt for the awkward pathologist. That kind of desire was nothing more than an addiction of the spirit, and he would simply have to resist its pull just as he still had to resist the urge to find relief in a seven percent solution.

That desire for the drugs was always there. It no longer burned as it once had, but it was a constant, vague itch, and he had finally accepted that it always would be. It was such a sweet temptation, even now. It would be so easy to escape the screaming noise in his mind, to forget the heavy pressure on his chest. The quick sting of the needle, and then he would know peace, gentle quiet and calm, and the problem of Molly Hooper would wash gently away on the tide. John would be disappointed in him, but so what? That was what Sherlock Holmes did - he disappointed people. Despite the inevitable repercussions, Sherlock couldn't help but feel that, in many ways, caving to the desire for the drugs would the least destructive of the temptations that plagued him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy New Year, wonderful readers! I hope your holidays were both merry and bright! I wish that I was handing y'all a snuggly Sherlolly chapter to ring in the new year, but alas, NO. Bear with me a little longer, dear readers. There are happier times coming...eventually.
> 
> If the emo drama is too much for you right now and you'd like something a little more um...pornographic, to tide you over, I did participate in the '50 Reasons to Have (Sherlolly) Sex' meme on Tumblr over the holiday. 'Three-Quarters Curiosity' here on AO3 was the result. It is not set in the SoP universe at all and is rated VERY 'M'.
> 
> My intention is to update the story next Sunday, but I am going to be out of town for the next two weekends so I cannot *promise* that it will happen. Pray for me as I take a six year old and a three year old on a 14-hour car trip to Disney World.
> 
> Big huggles to the lovely, patient, kind and generous ladies - Katie F and allofmyheart whom I badger incessantly with poorly constructed sentences and positively absurd cultural assumptions. I can practically *hear* Katie cry 'That's not where a comma goes!' AT LEAST twenty times per chapter.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

When John came home three days later, Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his eyes focused on a crack in the plaster ceiling. He was, by now, half out of his mind with boredom, his brain raw from the constant, unrelenting sandpaper of his thoughts. He had torn the flat to shreds during a fit of agitated frustration, leaving books and papers strewn across every horizontal surface. Beyond that he had done little. He had slept, but only in fits and starts, preferring exhaustion to the resurgent dreams that plagued him the moment he lost consciousness. Hunger gnawed from time to time, but he couldn't be bothered to prepare anything to eat, and he had neither showered nor shaved. He knew he looked wretched, but he couldn't find it in him to care. The pressure in his chest remained, but he had managed to get beyond the cause of it.

He could delete the  _reason_  for the ache, but there was nothing he could do to stop the pain.

"You alright?" John pocketed his keys as he crossed the room and looked down at him.

"Fine."

"Are those the same pyjamas you were wearing when I left?"

"Could be." Sherlock moved his shoulders slightly without shifting his gaze from the ceiling. His mind was in turmoil, his thoughts unchecked and grating, and he needed something outside of himself to focus on. It was something like the compulsion to hold perfectly still when the body was in pain.

John crossed his arms and looked down at Sherlock with his lips pursed. "You're not fine. You look awful. When was the last time you ate something? You're not getting sick, are you?" He reached for Sherlock's forehead, as though to check his temperature, but Sherlock slapped his hand away.

"I. Am. Fine," he said through gritted teeth.

"Right, of course you are," John said. He shook his head and then headed toward the kitchen.

"I need a case," Sherlock called, disliking the edge of desperation in his voice. He rolled sideways until he was balanced precariously on the edge of the sofa. "Find me a case, John. I need one. I need one  _now_."

"Have you tried checking the bloody website?"

"No." Sherlock rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling once more. "I can't be bothered."

"And yet, I can," John said, acerbically.

"Exactly," Sherlock replied without a trace of irony.

John took a deep breath, collecting himself with some effort. "Right. I'll just have a look-see, shall I?" He yanked his laptop open and dropped into his chair with it, stabbing at the keys.

" _Now_ , if you don't mind."

"I'm just doing it!"

"You need to work on developing an adequate sense of urgency, John."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," John said, and then after a peering at the screen for a moment he added, "No, there's nothing here." He turned to glance at Sherlock's sprawled figure. "Sorry."

"Nothing?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. "Nothing at all? That seems… unlikely."

"Nothing you'll take." John glanced back at the screen and clicked the mouse a few times. "I mean we've got the usual stuff. There's one for digging up dirt in a custody battle - that sounds fun - and then two of your garden-variety 'Is my spouse having an affair' inquiries. That's all -"

"Yes, yes, that's fine." Sherlock spun sideways and sat up. "Get me the information. I'll start with those."

"What? John looked at him in wide-eyed shock. "Seriously? You're going to take a domestic case? You never take domestic cases."

"Well, obviously that isn't true, is it?" Sherlock said, giving John a disapproving look as he pushed to his feet. "I'll shower first and then we can be off. Get the information."

Bemused, John dutifully took down the information, and started dialing the first number as Sherlock stomped off to the bathroom.

Three hours later, the sun was beginning to set. Light from the dying day washed the sitting room with streaks of crimson light like splashes of paint across the carpet. The heavy scent of Mrs. Hudson's dinner preparations wafted up through the open door to the flat - shepherd's pie tonight, it would seem. John's stomach growled, and Sherlock tried to remember if he had eaten anything since yesterday.

His head was aching. He had showered and shaved for the first time in three days, and he was even dressed somewhat appropriately, barring his last minute decision to eschew socks and shoes. Why should he bother in his own flat? It seemed a waste of unnecessary effort. As an unexpected bonus, his decision to meet their client barefoot had earned him a censorious glower from John, which he took pleasure in ignoring.

Sherlock sat slouched in his usual chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his pale feet crossed at the ankles. His client sat across from him, flicking her eyes about the room as if she were contemplating making a break for the door. She was wide-eyed and whey-faced, and he could tell simply by watching her clench her fingers protectively around the golden circlet of her wedding band that she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask.

God, how dull.

He tuned her out almost as soon as she began speaking. John was an attentive listener; he would remember the necessary details. Not that there was likely to be much worth conveying. These cases were all so very much the same - he's working late all the time; he doesn't answer his mobile when I call; there are new business trips; he's getting strange calls at odd hours - Mr. Holmes, is my husband having an affair?

Barring the unlikely event that there was some clandestine position within the Secret Service involved, the answer was inevitably  _yes_. Why they preferred to pay someone to do the legwork they could so easily do themselves, he would never understand. He assumed it must have to do with sentiment. Was it easier to receive proof of unfaithfulness from a stranger than it was to see it first-hand? Did a degree of separation from the pain of discovery mitigate the intensity of the trauma? He grimaced and pushed the thoughts away. His head hurt too much to dwell on the intricacies of human pair-bonding right now.

He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket but set it aside without bothering to check the message. Lestrade had called half a dozen times and then resorted to texting, but Sherlock had no interest in the case the Detective Inspector was coaxing him to take. Yet another unidentified body down at the morgue, this one with strange, possibly ritual, scarring. Boring. Dull. He brushed away the mocking voice in his head that suggested he would be more inclined to take the case were it not for a certain pathologist whom he did not -  _could not_  see.

"Thank you, Mrs. Walker," John said, standing. "We'll be in touch in a few days."

Sherlock took John's cue and stood as well, straightening his shirt cuffs. He nodded to the woman. "Mrs. Walker." She looked as though she wasn't sure if she should offer her hand or curtsey. In the end, she merely whispered 'Thank you" and fled the flat as quickly as her legs would take her.

"So do you think -"

"Yes," Sherlock said. He crossed to the window and watched the woman scurry across the street.

John sighed. "So  _why_  did you take this case? Come on. I know it's not just because you're bored. You've ignored a thousand cases like this even when you were starving for something to do. Why now?"

Sherlock shrugged and went to fetch his socks and shoes. "If we leave now, we can probably tie this up tonight," he called from his room. "The faithless Mr. Walker generally 'works late' on Thursdays so we'll head to his office now and see if he's still there. You have the photo?" He returned to the sitting room to find John facing him with his arms across his chest, a frown on his face. "What?"

"This is about Molly, isn't it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. How could Molly have anything to do with Mr. Walker?"

"You know damn well what I mean, Sherlock." John's voice was low, his jaw rigid. "You're not taking these cases because of a sudden fit of social-mindedness. You're avoiding the morgue." He held up Sherlock's phone. "You've just got another text. Lestrade's been after you all day to help him with a case at Barts, and you're not even bothering to answer him. That's telling, don't you think?"

"I don't know what you think it's supposed to be telling," Sherlock replied. He sat on the sofa and calmly began pulling on his socks and shoes. He did not like having this conversation with John again. Molly was none of his business.

"You've done something, haven't you? You've done, or more likely said, something awful to her, and now you can't be around her. Is that it?" John threw the phone onto the sofa next to Sherlock. "You stupid man."

"You're the one that told me to stay away from her, John." Sherlock focused hard on doing up his laces, not wanting to look up, not wanting John to see the guilt etched into his face.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John threw his hands up. "So you, what, acted like enough of an ass that she threw you out?" He paused, and then gave a humorless laugh. "No. No, there's almost nothing you could do that would make her do that. You acted like an ass and then  _you left_. You tore her to pieces and then you walked away, didn't you?" John shook his head in disbelief. "Did you think that's what I meant? I said 'stay away from her', and you heard 'crush her into dust'? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I did what you asked," Sherlock snapped, bolting to his feet. "I made sure that I could stay away from her, that I would  _have to_  stay away from her! I cannot,  _will_  not, pursue a relationship with her, and so I am staying away. I am 'letting her get on with her life', just as you demanded." He was breathing heavily. The pressure in his chest was squeezing hard again, a band around his torso whose ends seemed to connect somewhere just over his heart.

"You could, you just  _won't_ ," John said, coldly. "You're too damn stubborn to admit that it's okay to need someone else. You still think  _love_  is some kind of disease. And, well, maybe it is, but, thank God, with the right person, it's contagious." John's voice softened. His face knitted with an emotion that Sherlock refused to think of as pity. "You're only hurting yourself, Sherlock."

"Leave me in peace to do it then."

"Fine," John pressed his lips together and nodded. "Fine. I won't mention it again."

"I seem to recall you saying that same thing once before, rather recently, in fact."

"Yeah, well, I mean it this time. It's your life - such as it is. If you want to work mindless domestic cases for the rest of your career, just to avoid having to see her, that's fine with me. Go for it."

Sherlock's lip curled into a sneer. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to know that I have your permission," he said.

John took a step back and gestured toward the door. "Best get on with it then. You wouldn't want to leave Mrs. Walker waiting."

"No, certainly not," Sherlock said, reaching for his coat. He already felt cold. "We had better make haste in disabusing Mrs. Walker of the notion that  _love_  is the many-splendored thing that she has always imagined it to be." He slid the heavy Belstaff coat across his shoulders and smirked at John. "I can see why you're all in such a hurry to yoke yourselves to one another. How exciting it must be, wondering from day to day when it's all going to fall apart."

John didn't respond. Sherlock crossed to the desk and retrieved the thin folder John had prepared for the case. He flipped it open to the photograph of an unremarkable-looking middle-aged man with greying hair. What sense did love make? He snapped the folder shut and headed for the door - alone.

The sun had completed its descent, abandoning the city to the oncoming night. The streets were busy. Cars and buses and cabs filled the lanes, and pedestrians clogged the pavement - all hurried, all anxious to get home at the end of a long day. It was the frenetic pace of dusk as London burst into activity for a brief time before slowly lapsing back into that deceptive somnolence that never quite reached slumber.

Sherlock walked the pavement with his head down, shoulders hunched to keep out the curious fingers of the autumn wind. He was feeling too impatient and agitated to hold still until an available cab happened by. His chest still felt tight, his anger toward John an unfamiliar and uncomfortable burn. He walked faster, hoping to outdistance it, or at least drown it out.

He didn't  _need_  anyone. He never had. People had their uses, and yes, he cared for some of them, including Molly, in a way. But he could not bear this kind of need that bordered on dependence, this all-encompassing  _want_  that she brought out in him. She was the problem that he couldn't seem to solve - the problem of Molly Hooper.

The thing that grated most about the problem of Molly Hooper was that Molly Hooper wasn't the problem. He was. Molly - sweet, strong, steadfast Molly - had not changed while he had been away. He had. Now he craved her like a man who had spent the past two years crossing the desert craved an oasis. She was everything that was pure and good and worthy, and he  _wanted_  her. He wanted her in every way that a man could want a woman. He wanted her approval, her acceptance, her smile and her conversation. And, damn him, he wanted her body - he wanted to touch her, taste her, discover everything about her. He wanted to catalog the sounds she made when he moved inside her, and find out what she tasted like when she came. He would not call it love - there was no such thing. This was nothing but desire, a weakness of spirit, and he  _would_  defeat it.

He slowed finally and raised a hand to hail an approaching cab, but it was John's voice that called out "Taxi!".

Sherlock glanced at his friend in surprise, but John merely shook his head. "Just shut up and get in the cab."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, lovely readers! I wasn't planning to update this week, but I got a bit ahead on my writing (amazing how much you can get done during a 30 hour car trip) and I've almost caught up on the post-vacation laundry so y'all get to reap the benefits (such as they are) of my efficiency.
> 
> Please be patient with the slow-moving development of plot and characterization. There are good things coming soon, I promise! I just want to make sure our favorite consulting detective manages to stay *in character* while he's falling hard for his pathologist. Thanks for sticking with the story through the slow bits!
> 
> My thanks to each of you for taking the time to read, and an extra special air-kiss to those of you who linger just a little to leave a comment. I love to write more than almost anything, but getting comments from you guys comes in a very close second!
> 
> Thanks to Katie F and allofmyheart for their continued good-nature, patience and tolerance. So much love and gratitude to you, my lovely betas!


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

"Well, that one was… unexpected," John said as he tucked the Walker file into the cabinet drawer. He slid it closed, and then turned the key in the lock. "Shame I can't write it up for the blog. Who'd have thought that Mr. Walker was working undercover for the Secret Service?"

"Unexpected, yes," Sherlock murmured. He was in the kitchen, leaning over the eyepiece on his microscope. Messy piles of slides littered the surface of the island as he worked his way through yet another box of tissue samples. He was dressed, right down to his shoes and socks. His recently trimmed hair was still slightly damp from the shower, and a half-eaten sandwich sat on a plate by his elbow. Today he was functioning.

"Mrs. Walker was pleasantly surprised, I think," John went on. "Finding out he wasn't having an affair after all." He was leaning against the filing cabinet in the sitting room with his arms crossed, eyeing Sherlock meaningfully.

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock said without looking up. He reached around the microscope and unclipped the slide, adding it to the pile of rejects, and reaching for the next one.

"It was kind of refreshing, really," John said. "Having a case like that turn out to be nothing." He waited for Sherlock to respond, and when he didn't, added, "You were wrong, you know, about the Walkers."

"I can see that you are doing your best to draw me into conversation, John, though I cannot see why, when I so clearly want to be left alone to work." He adjusted the site on the microscope and flicked an annoyed glance at his flatmate before he went back to it. "I admit, I was initially wrong in my assessment of Mr. Walker's infidelity. Of course, I had the bare minimum of facts at the time. As soon as we had collected more reliable data than the questionable 'feelings' of the potentially injured party, it became clear that we were dealing with more than just a garden variety adulterer."

"About whom, you were  _wrong_."

Sherlock sighed and turned away from the microscope. "Yes, I was wrong. I was wrong about this particular instance of apparent fidelity. Forgive me if this one case doesn't do much to alter my beliefs in regards to the futility of interpersonal relationships as a whole. If you remember, there have been four other cases in the interim in which the spouse  _was_  being unfaithful."

"Oh, believe me, I hadn't forgotten." John made a face. "It's all been quite unpleasant." He crossed over to his desk and opened his laptop. "I'm looking forward to when you're done being a stroppy bastard and agree to take one of the cases Lestrade keeps on at you about." The chime of incoming email caught his attention, and he glanced at the screen. "You see this? I have two new emails from Lestrade just today."

"Delete them," Sherlock said, and went back to his slides.

"It has been three weeks, Sherlock," John chided. "Don't you think it's about time you took him up on one of these? There have been four new unidentified bodies in the past several weeks. That's a bit unusual, isn't it?."

"A bit, perhaps." Sherlock was back at his microscope. "But the Yard managed without me for two years. There's no reason they can't take care of this on their own now. I'm still 'unofficial', after all." He had to force his mind away from John, and Lestrade's cases, and any number of other things, in order to turn his attention back to the brightly-stained histologic tissue specimen under the scope. This sorting wasn't something that strictly needed to be done today, but, even this small task was better than the empty alternative.

Three weeks, John had said, but that wasn't quite right. It was twenty-six days, four hours and seventeen minutes since he had walked out of Barts. That was how long since he had decided not to take any cases that would necessitate a trip to the morgue. That was how long it had been since the last time he had seen - .

He forced the slide out from under the clips with too much pressure and the fragile piece of glass snapped in two, slicing deep into the side of his index finger. He swore under his breath and pushed away from the counter, dripping blood as he made for the sink. He washed away the worst of it under the tap and grabbed a towel to staunch the flow until he could get a plaster for it.

John came into the kitchen and wordlessly reached for the first aid kit.

Sherlock sat with his head down, allowing John to bandage his finger, and berating himself inwardly for his carelessness. What did it matter really, though? What was one more absurdity amongst the many other foolish things he had done in the past few weeks?

He had stayed busy. That was the important thing. He had taken cases he would never have even considered taking before - digging up dirt on cheating spouses, finding a lost family heirloom, tracking down a deadbeat dad - all far beneath his skill and interest level, but  _necessary_. He needed the work, in whatever form he could get it, to keep him occupied. He 'took care of himself', as John phrased it. He ate, he showered, he slept - some at least. When his hand drifted towards his violin, he snatched it back. He would not allow himself to  _pine_. He would not allow himself to cave into the emotion that plucked at him with insistent fingers.

Two years of traveling the world in search of James Moriarty's criminal network had fundamentally changed him. He knew it was true, and he hated it. And so he was trying by sheer force of will to become the man he had been before the fall. He did not need reminding that he could never quite be that man again - that man had had Molly.

The cracks had begun to open the moment he had stepped off the roof of Barts.

Strangely, it wasn't the fall itself that caused the first fissure to open. It was Molly's colourless face as she checked him over in the cold, bright glare of the morgue. He'd been shaken by the fall if not actually harmed, and when she had wordlessly flung her arms around him, he'd not only let her, but clung to her in return. That way it hadn't mattered so much which of them was trembling.

The next fracture had come when his train had crossed the border and he had left England behind with no idea of when he might return. He had almost believed that he could feel the moment that the wheels had crossed that invisible line. A great jolt had run through his body and made his bones ache, and he had thought it must be the physical shock of a man being separated from his country - though he knew it was merely the train picking up speed.

From there it was a constant chipping away at the shell of his reserve.

He had gone off into the world both completely alone and unavoidably dependent. He had traveled alone and worked alone, but no man, not even Sherlock Holmes, could expect to take down a world-wide network of criminal cells without some form of help.

And so, he had learned to endure dependence.

It was necessary. He reminded himself daily that it was  _unavoidable_. As he washed up on each new shore, he turned his focus on his objective, steeled his resolve, and began to seek out new contacts that would help him find his way to the endgame - the dissolution of James Moriarty's criminal legacy.

It was the same type of arrangement he had with the homeless network back home, or so he told himself - the same, except different. He felt like a blind man in an unfamiliar world - forced to take the offered hand, regardless of the spirit behind it. In Egypt and Prague and Azerbaijan, and again in Afghanistan and then when he had crossed the Kushk River into Turkmenistan, he had shaken off the discomfort, ignored the new cracks in his shell, and gone hunting.

He was good at identifying useful assets - the people whom he could trust, who would help him on his way, keep his secrets and, if need be, watch his back. Most of them had a  _reason_. Victims of the network were not hard to find if one knew where to look, and Sherlock knew. These were the ones that had been most harmed by the lawless syndicate that James Moriarty had so lovingly cultivated. These were the ones that had lost their fortunes, or their loved ones, or simply their peace of mind - and they too wanted vengeance.

His skills of observation and deduction were invaluable tools, and usually -  _usually_  - they steered him true. On three separate occasions he had made mistakes in whose hands he had placed his trust, and his life, and it angered him still to have been misled.

Trust was not natural for him. It was a challenge to reach out in faith on short acquaintance, but he'd been realistic. It was a risk he had no choice but to take. If he had decided instead to wait - to go it alone without help from anyone - it would have been an impossible task. The network was not going to stagnate because of Moriarty's death. Sherlock had known it would grow with or without its mastermind at the helm. It would spread out and it would work malicious fingers into every corner of the world. If he did not act, and quickly, it would have spread too far to be stopped. It would be a silent, evil presence  _everywhere_.

He was not one of the angels, he never would be, but he was vengeful, and he would not grant James Moriarty his legacy.

And so he had depended on strangers and trusted blindly, and a crime syndicate of nearly unimaginable proportions had been dismantled by a single man with a vendetta and an invisible army at his back.

That was behind him now. All of it. He wanted nothing more than for things to go back to the way they had been before the fall.

He was home. He was back at Baker Street with John, at least until the wedding. He was working with the Yard again. He was back in his old life. It was just as he had left it. But he was still different. The cracks would not heal. Like the nursery rhyme about an absurdly named character who fell off the wall, he couldn't seem to put himself back together again.

"All the king's horses." he murmured.

"What's that?" John frowned at him as he packed up the first aid kit. "What did you say about horses?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. It's nothing." He examined the neat bandage on his finger. "Thank you, John."

"Of course, any time." John tucked the well-used kit back behind the bread bin and then leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not exactly your area of expertise is it,  _doctor_?" Sherlock said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.

John put up his hands. "No, it's not. I was just - " He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Don't  _just_ ," Sherlock suggested. He reseated himself behind the microscope and flicked a hand in the direction of the door. "Tell them to go away."

"I can't imagine why you're having a hard time finding cases right now," John said over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "It defies explanation." He yanked the door open. "Oh hello, Detective Inspector."

"Hello, John," came Lestrade's voice from the hall. "Good to see you. Is he in?"

"No." Sherlock's voice carried from the kitchen.

"Yes, of course he is," John said, raising his voice so that Sherlock could hear him. 'Where else would he be?" He stood back. "The maestro is in the kitchen. Have at him."

Lestrade came through the door with a younger man by his side. "This is my new Sargent, Martin du Crieff. Martin, this is John Watson."

They had barely made it as far as the kitchen door before Sherlock spoke. "No, Inspector."

"And  _that_  is Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said with a sigh, and then addressed Sherlock. "You know I hate it when you do that. At least let me ask the question first."

Sherlock was back at his microscope, looking down at the world from a perspective that made sense. "I already know what you're going to ask and you already know that I know it. I simply don't see the point in wasting either of our time. Good afternoon, Detective Inspector."

"But, Sherlock - "

"I can't help you right now. I am far too busy."

"No, you're not," John interjected from the other room. "He's really not," he added to Lestrade. "He's bored out of his bloody, stubborn mind."

"Come on then," Lestrade said. "We need you. Even the Chief Superintendent has signed off on bringing you on board for this. He's willing to let you come in as a licensed consultant - a  _paid_ , licensed consultant, I might add. It's an odd case - thwarting the best minds at Scotland Yard and everything. Just imagine how smug you'll get to be when you solve it in five minutes and make the rest of us look like fools."

Sherlock spared him a brief, dry look and then went back to his microscope. "Body's down at St Barts?"

"Yes, several. If you'll just - "

"No."

John gave a disgusted sigh. "Alright, this is getting ridiculous. This is the kind of case you live for." He elbowed past Lestrade and du Crieff to glare down at Sherlock. "You could just go when she's not there, you know. She does go home  _occasionally_. Hell, even Howard would have to let you see the bodies if you're there with Lestrade."

Lestrade frowned at John. "She?"

John arched a knowing eyebrow at the inspector. "Sherlock and Molly are having a bit of a domestic."

"Molly Hooper?" du Crieff said, too loudly. "That girl from the morgue?" He snorted. "Must be one hell of a domestic. Molly doesn't even work at Barts anymore."

Sherlock's head snapped up.

"What? Why? What's happened?"

It was John who spoke. Sherlock sat frozen behind his microscope, his face expressionless.

Lestrade's shifted his gaze back and forth between John and Sherlock, frowning. "She took a post at another hospital out in Surrey," he said slowly. "Her last day was Friday. I thought you knew."

Without a word, Sherlock stood and walked past the three men that crowded his kitchen.

There was suddenly too much confusion in the room. He needed to get out.

Twenty-six days, four hours and forty-two minutes - that was how long it had been since he had last seen her. Twenty-six days, four hours and forty-two minutes - and counting.

"No, Greg," he heard John say softly. "No, he didn't know."

Sherlock crossed the sitting room and picked up his violin. It was a small comfort to hold the aged wood in his hands. He sank into his chair and held the instrument across his chest.

It was suddenly painful to breathe, but he kept doing it.

He could still hear John and Lestrade speaking. They were only in the other room, but their voices carried as if through water - muddled and indistinct. He could not make them out, and he could not find it in him to care what they were saying.

Molly was leaving. She was leaving, and she would not be coming back.

He closed his eyes and forced away the flat, and the voices, and tried to tell himself that this was as it should be.

She would go to Surrey, and her experience at a large hospital like Barts would help her shine. She would meet someone who would get her jokes and make her laugh in turn. She would be happy with him, and each day she would think less and less of Sherlock Holmes and the bloody, awful nightmare he had once been to her. And then, one day, he would get an invitation in the mail, or maybe John would, and his presence would be gratefully requested at the wedding of Molly Hooper and some pleasant, harmless man who deserved her far more than he ever had, or could. As it should be.

He didn't know how much time passed before he came back to himself, but when he did, the flat was dim and silent. The sunlight was fading. John sat in his usual chair with his legs crossed, watching him. Lestrade and Sargent du Crieff were gone.

"I told Lestrade you would call him tomorrow."

"Yes." There was no point in staying away from Barts now, he supposed. He would take Lestrade's case, and lose himself in it for a while. And then he would take another, and then another. He would push on the same way he always had. All he needed was the work. In time -

"Go and get her, you idiot," John said without heat.

Sherlock opened his mouth to suggest that John stop watching quite so many of Mary's romantic comedies, and then, almost to his own surprise, he reached for his coat instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, darling readers! I hope this is a promising enough place to leave off this week:)
> 
> Where *DO* you suppose Sherlock is off to? Let's just hope he gets a warm reception when he gets there.
> 
> Thanks so much to each of you who stop in and read each week, and an extra special hug with rainbow sprinkles to those of you who leave a comment - they warm the cockles of my chilly little writer's heart.
> 
> And a further extension of my eternal gratitude to Katie F and allofmyheart for being the bestest most betalicious betas in the whole wide world.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Molly stood in the middle of her sitting room with a roll of packing tape in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. It wasn't her first of either, nor, she suspected, her last. She surveyed the chaos in front of her and tried very hard not to feel overwhelmed. A week had seemed like plenty of time to get her flat packed up and ready for the movers. Now that seemed a ludicrously ambitious schedule and she was toying with the idea of leaving everything right where it was and starting over again from scratch when she arrived in Surrey.

Books. It was all down to the sheer number of books she owned. There were libraries in the smaller counties that had fewer books on their shelves than she had scattered about her sitting room. She knew she ought to bin the lot, or at least donate them, but she couldn't seem to shake her childish reluctance to part with a book once she had read it. It felt rather like abandoning a friend.

With a sigh that she felt all the way down to her fuzzy slippers, Molly sat on the floor and reached for the nearest stack. Neverwhere went into the box on top of The Hobbit, the Parade's End tetralogy, a compendium on Royal Navy frigates and the entire Anne of Green Gables series. Then she stopped for a sip of her wine and reached for the next pile. It was going to be another long evening.

It was all so much effort, and for what? To leave the city she loved for a new post in an unfamiliar place with new faces and a new flat, new shops, a new  _library_. Was she really giving up everything she had built up for herself here just to avoid -

 _No_ , she reminded herself sternly, batting away the doubt that tried to creep in again. This move was going to be a  _good_  thing for her. She wasn't running away from anything. She was running  _to_  something - a fresh start, a new beginning. If it also meant getting away from certain other aspects of London, with their sharp cheekbones and supercilious attitude, well, that was merely an added consequence of her decision to make a change. It wasn't the  _reason_  for it.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't the reason she was leaving. He just wasn't the reason she was staying anymore.

His callous remarks to her in the lab had cut deep, but not just because of his casual cruelty. It wasn't as if it were the first time he'd hurt her feelings. It was just that she had started to think that he respected her, that he valued her for her mind and considered her… well, not a  _friend_ , perhaps, but something more than merely an 'asset'. It had always been enough for her to be trusted by Sherlock Holmes - a man who liked few and trusted fewer. It had been  _worth_  it.

No, the words themselves she could dismiss. The thing that had dealt the final blow was the realization that after all they had been through, after all she had done for him, he thought so very little of her. She was nothing but a useful item in Sherlock's toolbox, skillfully exploited by his uncanny ability to manipulate human emotions that he himself didn't possess. There was nothing left now but for her to feel foolish and then to move on with her life.

She had held Sherlock Holmes' place in the world until he could step back into it, and now he had. From here on out, he was on his own. Now it was there turn to figure out where she belonged.

Another load of books went into a box - anatomy and physiology texts this time - and then she tilted her glass up to drain the last of the wine. The movers wouldn't take the bottles, so this seemed like the most efficient method of disposal.

She wasn't sad, not really. It was all going to be new, and that was a little frightening, but it was exciting as well. There were people she would miss, and her old job, not to mention the city itself, but it wasn't as if she'd never see them again. Surrey was just a train ride away. She could pop back anytime she wanted. And she would make new friends, and was sure she would be happy in her new job.

And then there was Sherlock.

Yes, she  _would_  miss him, despite everything. She couldn't very well blame him for not reciprocating her feelings - for other things, certainly, but not for that. He couldn't help being the way he was. For that matter, she had always  _liked_  him the way he was. More the fool, her.

His mercurial nature had never bothered her. She knew he would be moody and short-tempered, clinical and detached or, very occasionally - and generally only at the conclusion of a case - relaxed and amicable. He was not always kind, and quite often rude, but she had accepted him as he was and liked him despite his shortcomings.

And then John Watson had come along.

Sherlock was never going to be friendly or social, but John had helped to file down the rough edges of his manner and acted as a conscience when Sherlock needed it, which was quite a lot to start but had been surprisingly less over time.

And then Sherlock had been forced to disappear into the world, and he had been alone.

The man who had returned was different from the one who had left. He was still brilliant, still a master of the world around him. But now he seemed less sure of his own place in it. Whatever had happened to Sherlock during his time away, it had changed him in some fundamental way.

Molly had at first thought it possible that his experiences had softened him, that maybe the uncertainty had given him a gentler edge, that maybe it had humanized him a bit.

Well, obviously she'd been mistaken about that.

Not that any of that mattered anymore. That part of her life was behind her. And if she ever managed to get all this mess packed up in time, she would be able to close the door on this chapter and start a new one on a fresh, blank page.

Toby stalked through the maze of boxes with his tail in the air. He wasn't best pleased about the upheaval in the flat, and he was making his displeasure known by staying constantly underfoot and in the way.

Annoying he might be, but Molly couldn't help but smile at his transparent plea for attention. She wasn't the only one feeling uncertain about the immediate future. She reached out and hauled him into her lap for a cuddle, which he tolerated with equanimity, butting his head under her chin when she stopped scratching.

The knock on the door made her jump.

Startled, Toby shot out of her arms and streaked down the hall in a brown and white blur. She would no doubt find him cowering under the bed in the guest room when she went looking for him later. It was his default hiding spot now that she had turned the rest of the flat into an obstacle course of clutter.

"My brave defender," Molly called after him with a smile. She pushed to her feet and picked her way through the labyrinth of books to the front door.

No one had buzzed up, but it wasn't unlike Ms. Forester to pop by unannounced with mis-delivered mail, a plate of cookies, or juicy gossip about the artsy couple in 203. Molly thought nothing of reaching for the doorknob.

She resolved to be more cautious in the future when she opened the door and found herself, once again, face to face with the world's only consulting detective.

"Oh. Hello, Sherlock," she managed to say after only a minor delay, and she was pleased that her voice neither shook nor came out sounding too shrill. If her heart immediately started to race and her palms suddenly grew slippery, it didn't have to mean anything. She was over her crush on Sherlock bloody Holmes. She gripped the doorknob tighter and tried not to wonder why he was here. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes. Hello, Molly." Sherlock pushed past her and into the flat.

Molly closed her eyes and scowled, but managed to close the door gently behind him rather than give in to the childish desire to slam it instead.

Sherlock had stopped short just inside the flat and seemed to be taken aback by the mess. He frowned down at the piles of books.

Molly crossed her arms and tried to rein in her temper. "What do you want, Sherlock?" she asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. "Maybe you hadn't heard yet, but I don't work at Barts anymore. I can't do anything for you anymore. I am not your asset  _anymore_. I can't get you tissue samples, I can't get you bodies, I can't so much as check out a bloody file for you anymore. So what,  _what_ , can I possibly do for you?"

It took a moment for him to pull his gaze away from the shambled disarray of her sitting room. He didn't seem to have noticed her tone, or for that matter, heard a word she had said. Infuriating, insufferable -

"You can't leave," he said. His pale face was set into determined lines, looking for all the world like a spoiled child demanding that the universe bend around his will.

Ridiculous man.

She blinked at him. "What? Yes, I can. I most certainly can. I am can - I mean, I am leaving."

Sherlock made a frustrated sound that was nearly a growl. He twisted and turned around like he was searching for something. Molly realized that he was desperate to pace, but he couldn't find the room. If she hadn't been so angry with him, it would have been funny.

He gave up after a moment and seemed to settle for fidgeting in place. "No, no. I don't mean you  _can't_  leave, I mean - " He took a deep breath, and met her eyes with deliberate effort. "I mean  _don't_  leave."

Molly let out a brittle laugh. "What do you care?" She lifted her chin in challenge, even as her chest tightened and breathing suddenly became more difficult. She swallowed hard, hating the tears that pricked at the back of her eyes. Damn the man. Why did she let him affect her this way? "What possible difference can it make to you whether it's me here or not, Sherlock? There's going to be a new pathologist in. The hospital's already looking. If you would stop being such a prat for five bloody minutes, and try actually being  _nice_ , you could probably get them to work with you willingly. And, you know what? That's exactly what you're going to have to do if you want to keep access to the labs. Because it's either that or cross your fingers and hope that they hire in another spineless idiot with a crush."

And then it was too much, and the tears she had been fighting against finally spilled over.

She was so angry with him - so hurt and so  _affected_. Dammit, why did she let him have this power over her?

Furious with him, and with herself, she turned and tried to push past him. She couldn't help her tears, but that didn't mean she had to stand there in her own sitting room and give him front-row seats to the show.

But as she pushed by, focused only on escaping out from under his scrutiny, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

"Molly."

"Let me go, Sher - " was as far as she got.

And then he was kissing her.

Maybe it was all down to the empty bottle of very good Riesling she had just chucked in the bin, but it took a lot longer than it should have for Molly's brain to make sense of Sherlock's fingers cupping her face, his warm lips pressed softly against hers.

When her synapses recovered from the shock sufficiently to start firing again, she gasped and jerked away from him, putting as much space between them as she could manage without having to clamber over a stack of boxes. "What are you  _doing_?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and grimaced. "I did that wrong, didn't I?"

"Did what?" She was breathless and wide-eyed, and confused, and annoyed. Mostly annoyed. But also angry; it was important that she remember that she was also angry. "What was that supposed to be?" She realized that she was touching her lips with her fingertips and quickly yanked them away.

"I'm apologizing?" His eyebrow went up with the tilt of his voice. She was thrown by the uncertainty in his voice. Had she ever heard Sherlock sound uncertain before?

"Is that how you usually apologize?"

"I don't usually apologize."

Molly couldn't help her laugh. "Well, that's definitely true. So what was it I did to warrant this great honor from Sherlock Holmes?" She imbued her voice with as much sarcasm as she could muster, but unsurprisingly, he didn't pick up on it.

He was staring hard at a point a few inches in front of her, focusing with apparent interest on a thinning patch of carpet. "You're good, Molly. And you deserve to be happy, more than anyone else I know. And I've treated you horribly - not just this time, but other times as well - I don't know if you noticed."

"I noticed."

Her clipped tone made him glance up, and then he looked away again. "Yes, well, anyway, as I was saying - you deserve to be happy. I want you to be happy. But I…" He trailed off and frowned at the carpet. "I can't make you happy."

Molly sighed and looked away. The heaviness in her chest got heavier. "Yes, Sherlock. I know. It's fine. I don't need the 'it's not you, it's me' speech, okay?"

Sherlock's head shot up, "What? No. No, no, no - you're misunderstanding me."

"I am?"

"Yes, of course. You're being stupid."

She closed her eyes and shook her head in slow disbelief. "Aren't you supposed to be apologizing?"

"That's what I'm doing." He was agitated again and still couldn't find the room to pace. She was starting to worry that he might explode from all the pent-up energy.

"You're really not," Molly assured him. "Neither an impromptu snog nor telling someone they're stupid should be part of a heartfelt apology."

"Oh, no, of course not. Sorry." The look of chagrin on his face was comical.

Molly was fighting off a smile despite herself. No - she must remember to be angry…or at least annoyed. "Do you want to try again?"

"Yes, thanks. Okay." He wrinkled his brow and pressed his lips together in deep concentration. Then he took a deep breath and looked her in the eyes. "It's not me, it's you."

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him in silence for a moment. "You really aren't good at this, Sherlock."

He made a frustrated noise. "Still not good?"

"Not as far as apologies go, no."

"I don't need anyone - ," he began again.

She was too exasperated now to be angry or annoyed. "Sherlock - "

"No, no, let me finish," he said, holding up a forestalling hand. "I think I've got it this time." He waited for her puzzled nod of acknowledgement and then went on. "I don't  _need_  anyone. I never have. I find people noisy and distracting - all the customs and social norms and small talk required of human interaction are just so mundane and so  _boring._  The only thing I need is the work. That's all I've ever needed." Sherlock stopped and took another deep, shaky breath. "But it's not all down to what you need, is it? There are other considerations, aren't there, for most people?"

He was definitely looking at her now. There was something in his eyes that she felt like she could almost give a name to, some strain that furrowed a triangle between his brows and compressed his lips into a tight line.

"I don't need you Molly, but I…want you." He held her shocked gaze for a moment and then swallowed hard and dropped his eyes back to the carpet and then went on with the same rapid-fire speech pattern that he adopted when he was working through a deduction. "And I've never wanted anyone before, and I don't know how to want, but I don't know to stop wanting either, and I hurt you - I pushed you away because I thought that would help, I thought that if I wasn't around you that it would make the wanting stop and it - it didn't. And then I didn't want it to stop, because, even though relationships are messy and unpleasant and get in the way of everything, it's...better when you're there." He dragged his eyes back up to hers. "You were never just an asset, Molly. You're my friend, and you matter. I came to get you at the pub that night because I was worried that you might end up getting hurt and I…well, I didn't want you to get hurt."

Molly felt as if there suddenly wasn't enough air in the room. "You - you want…me?"

A flicker of exasperation crossed Sherlock's face and he glanced up at her. "Wasn't that what I just said?"

She widened her eyes at him, but couldn't suppress her smile. "Sorry, just - verifying."

"Yes, yes, of course." He flipped a dismissive hand, and for some inexplicable reason, the action brought tears to Molly's eyes. She pressed her lips together in amusement and irritation - and yes, happiness - as if that might seal it all in and prevent it from escaping.

"But I'm not good, Molly," he went on, now examining the wallpaper . "I'm just - not. I'm rude and unpleasant and untidy and egotistical. I'm not kind or affectionate. I forget birthdays, I don't like small talk, and, quite frankly, I hate your cat. I would make a perfectly terrible boyfriend." His voice softened until it matched the gentleness in his expression. "I'm convinced I wouldn't make you happy. But I…I can't not want you."

After a long, nearly breathless moment, Molly pushed her shoulders back and steeled herself for what she was going to say. She had to. She owed it to herself to say everything that she felt. It all needed to be said. "You've been horrible to me, Sherlock," she said, and saw his eyes tighten. "You said such cruel things to me. You - you actually  _tried_  to hurt me, and you did. You really did hurt me." She swallowed hard and licked her lips, trying to find the words.

"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry. I was wrong." Abashed, he pressed his lips together and bowed his head.

"I didn't deserve it," she went on. "And I won't be treated like that by anyone - not even you. Not for any reason. And if you think you can come in here and - and just  _snog_  me and think that it's going to make everything better…well, you're wrong." Her chest was still heaving with unshed tears, but her head was high and her chin tilted up. She had her dignity, whatever else.

She could see Sherlock's tall, proud body sag slightly, an almost infinitesimal drooping of his shoulders. "I - I understand," he said, softly.

"Good." She nodded definitively. "That's good. You need to understand. Because I mean it - it's going to take a lot more than that."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. And then his head jerked up. "What?"

Molly fidgeted, but managed to keep her gaze steady. "I said it's going to take more than that. A lot more. You've always known how I feel about you Sherlock, and that hasn't changed. But I won't let you treat me like that again. You have to be nice if you're going to be my - " She furrowed her brow, not entirely sure what word could adequately describe a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. "My…something."

Sherlock's face lit up slowly. He drew back to his full height and his eyes widened as if she had truly surprised him. And then a smile spread across his face like the gradual breaking of dawn, his full lips curving upwards into a perfect cupid's bow, the corners of his eyes crinkling into lines like tiny starbursts.

Molly huffed out a breath and gave a wry twist of her lips. "Okay, now see  _this_  is the part where the snogging might be appropriate."

For a second, Molly thought he was going to say something, but then he simply reached for her, and his lips were on hers. And this time, it was exactly right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearest, loveliest readers! I do I hope everyone gets a little bit of happy feels from this week. You've all earned it with your continued patience:)
> 
> Oh, and just so you know, the rating for the story will change next week. I WONDER WHY.
> 
> Thank you, as ever, to each of you who stop in to read! And great big squishy hugs to everyone who takes the time to leave a comment. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate all of your wonderful words of encouragement!
> 
> Always and forever, my thanks to Katie F and allofmyheart for their continued assistance with this indulgence of mine. I'd be getting nowhere without them!


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Sherlock's hands cradled the back of Molly's head as he kissed her.

They could stop here. There didn't have to be more than this right now - a new beginning, sealed with a kiss - that would be enough. It would be better if they took this slowly. She wasn't even entirely sure what 'this' was or where it put them or what it changed. The spectre of her new job fluttered through her mind along with the uncertainty of the immediate future. They should talk. It was important that they talk. The conversation wasn't over yet. There was still so much left to be said and explained and admitted.

And then Sherlock's tongue swept across her lips and he bridged the gap between their bodies, pulling her hard against him, and she forgot all about talking.

She opened under him, a tiny surrender, and he licked inside her mouth, stroking her tongue with his own.

Her hands fisted into the lapels of his coat. He was warm and solid and she wanted him  _closer_. His familiar scent was all around her and desire flooded her veins like a drug. Her moan was no more than a soft exhalation of breath, but she felt his hands tighten reflexively in response.

His breathing was as rapid as her own, the sound ragged and uneven in her ears, and she felt a surge of pleasure at the realization that he was as affected as she was. And this time it wasn't the shade of James Moriarty that propelled him, but desire for  _her._  He wanted her. And god, she wanted him. She always had.

Sherlock's lips slanted across hers. His tongue was hot in her mouth and his fingers were tight against her skull as though he feared she might try to pull away. " _Molly_ " he whispered breathlessly, and then kissed her again, sucking her lower lip between his teeth and biting down gently until she gasped. He caught the sound with his mouth and flexed his hips, moving hard against her.

Oh god.

She pushed at his coat, shoving the heavy material off of his shoulders, wanting to feel  _him_  pressed against her. She was only wearing pyjama bottoms and a shirt, and the disparity hardly seemed fair.

He helped her strip the coat down his arms, tossing it somewhere behind him. And then his arms came around her, and she was crushed to his chest, the breath going out of her in a rush. "Oof!"

"Sorry," he managed between kisses.

"S'alright," she panted in reply, and reached up to snake her arms around his neck.

Sherlock's kisses were surprisingly gentle - controlled and careful, but Molly could sense the effort behind his restraint. His back muscles were tight, bunched under her fingers and the hard line of the thigh pressed against hers trembled with tension.

The last time they had been together like this, she had pulled away. She had diffused the situation and given him back to himself without letting things escalate. He had been undone by his time away and the pain and loneliness that dogged him upon his return. She hadn't wanted to change things between them then, hadn't wanted to risk losing his friendship when he recovered his equanimity and looked back on the night of his return with displeasure. Sherlock Holmes valued calm, cool reasoning beyond anything else, and she wouldn't have taken that away from him for anything then, back when that was all he had left of his old life to cling to.

But now he was truly home. He had settled back into his old life as though he had never been away. He had regained his composure - both personal and professional. He had John back at his side, if with a plus one at  _his_ side. He was working cases with Lestrade, deviling Mrs. Hudson, irritating and exasperating his brother, and basically behaving as though the past two years had never happened.

This time there was no reason to pull away. This time Molly wanted to see what would happen when Sherlock Holmes lost control.

She reached for the buttons on his shirt and felt his fingers tighten on her as she slid the first one free. There wasn't much room between their bodies for her to manoeuver. He seemed unwilling to relax his grip though he held still and allowed her to slowly slip the buttons through the holes. Her hands shook a bit, but it didn't feel like a gamble. He wasn't going to stop her.

She worked blindly, kissing him as she unbuttoned the last button and pulled the tail of his shirt free from his trousers. Then she pushed up on her toes and licked into his mouth, sliding her hands across his warm skin as she pressed her hips deliberately into the hard line of his erection.

With a low sound that was nearly a growl, Sherlock shoved her hard up against the wall at her back and spread her thighs apart with his knee, positioning himself between them and rocking slowly into her.

Electricity sang through Molly's body and then came to settle between her legs in a rush of wet heat. "Oh," she breathed softly, grateful for the support of the wall at her back.

Sherlock rumbled his agreement into the damp skin at the curve of her shoulder and moved against her again, harder. His lips brushed across her skin, touching, tasting, exploring. His hands were on her hips, holding her in place, thumbs brushing the bare skin of her waist above the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, unconsciously caressing.

Molly brought her hands back up and laced them into his hair, and then, with her heart pounding, she turned her head so that her lips just brushed the shell of his ear. "Take me to bed, Sherlock," she whispered.

He froze, and she felt her heart stutter. Was that wrong? Had she got it wrong? But then she felt him suck in a deep breath and grip her harder.

"Hold onto me."

She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her mouth to the side of his throat to feel the rapid beat of his pulse in the steady thrum of his carotid artery beneath her lips.

He lifted her by her hips, holding her against the wall with his hands and the pressure of his body, the ridge of his cock lined up in the exact right spot, a glorious friction that made her hips twitch automatically upward. She moaned and let her head fall back against the wall with a thud.

"Molly."

She opened her eyes and he was watching her. His seawater eyes were blown almost entirely to black, a thin rim of colour all that was left as he looked down at her. It was more than just a little terrifying to have all the weight of that intensity brought down directly on her, and she shivered.

"Wrap your legs around me," he said. His voice was low and hoarse. He seemed entirely in control, but when she complied, tightening her legs around his waist and pressing their bodies closer together, she saw his eyes flutter and felt his breathing catch in his throat.

His hands cupped her bottom, and then he was kissing her again, his lips desperate and bruising, his tongue in her mouth, his hips thrusting against that hot, wet place between her legs that made her revel in the contact even as she craved  _more._

She barely even noticed when he carried her to the bedroom. How he managed to make it to the end of the hall with his tongue down her throat and his hands on her bum without tripping over a box, she had no idea.

And then he was lowering her to the bed, laying her across the duvet and following her with his body. He kicked off his shoes and shed the rest of his shirt as he moved next to her, supporting himself on his arms so he could continue his exploration. She wanted him over her, on her,  _inside_ her. She had waited long enough for this - she wanted it  _now._

 _"_ Sherlock,  _please,"_ she panted, rolling her hips against him. She knew she must sound desperate, but she didn't care.

"Soon," he said - a low promise that he whispered against her lips before he traced them with the tip of his tongue and then kissed her hard and wet and open-mouthed until she forgot how to breathe.

And then he was between her legs, moving gently against her while he kissed a path down her throat. He traced her curves with one large hand - sliding over her thigh, the swell of her hip, the contour of her waist and then up to settle gently over her breast.

Molly felt him go still, and then he raised up to look at her. His expression somehow managed to convey a strange combination of desire and amusement. He quirked an eyebrow and then slowly brushed the pad of his thumb across her nipple.

She sucked in a breath and arched against him, and then smacked him on his shoulder with the flat of her hand. "Well, I wasn't exactly expecting company, was I?"

He chuckled - a low, seductive sound that he smothered against her breastbone. "Oh, it's fine. More than fine, in fact." He rubbed his face gently back and forth in the warm valley between her bra-less breasts. "It's just one less impediment to what I had in mind."

He moved down her body, his hand still cupping the small mound of her breast, his thumb tracing light circles over the hardened bud of her nipple, sending gentle shocks through her body. And then his thumb was gone, and he was suckling her through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Molly's hips jerked upward instinctively, pleasure crackling through her body at the insistent pull of his lips. "Oh god," she said and threw her head back against the pillow.

"Oh good, you like that," he said, sounding amused and not just a little pleased with himself.

"Hmmm," she agreed, fisting her hands in his hair and tugging him back down. "Do it again."

"Gladly," he said, and did, more firmly this time. Then he switched his attention to her other breast, sucking and licking while his thumb returned to making lazy circles over the damp fabric of the other.

Molly's hands were in his hair, her breath coming in gasps as she held him firmly in place and wished he would stop all at the same time. She moved beneath him, desperate to feel his weight between her legs again, wanting the pressure of his body bearing down on her, wanting him to ease the ache that grew inside her with every deliberate pass of his tongue.

He rose over her again and warmed her lips with his own, grinding gently against her until she moaned and clung to him.

"What else do you not wear when you're home alone, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked in a rough whisper, his breath hot on her neck.

Molly managed a breathless smile that faltered when he thrust hard against her. "You're the consulting detective. You tell me."

His laugh was a low rumble. "Let's just see then, shall we?"

Sherlock shifted his body to lie alongside her and she felt a momentary pang at the loss of his heat until she felt his hand slide lazily down her belly. His eyes were hooded and dark and he watched her intently as his fingers slid beneath the band of her pyjama bottoms and into her hot, wet centre.

And then her perception contracted to a narrow pinpoint of reality that was made up only of Sherlock's fingers and the tiny bundle of nerves between her legs, and she was aware of nothing else for a long time.

Mindlessly, she moved against him, mirroring his steady pace with desperate need. Her head was flung back, her eyes closed and her mouth half open, abandoned to pure sensation. And then Sherlock's mouth closed over her nipple again and she cried out, jerking hard against his hand.

For such a large man, Sherlock moved surprisingly fast. She was barely aware that he had shifted and then he was kneeling between her legs, tugging on her bottoms.

"Sherlock - "

"Indulge me," he said, and it wasn't a request. He yanked her pyjamas off in one swift motion and then flicked a glance up at her face. "Take off your shirt."

It never even occurred to her not to obey. She crossed her arms and pulled her shirt over her head, baring herself completely to the piercing gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

He didn't move for a long moment. His eyes were locked on her naked body sprawled underneath him and she knew he was taking in every detail - her small breasts, her appendix scar, the tiny birth mark on her hip, the dark curls that covered her sex. She felt suddenly self-conscious and nearly brought her arms up to cover herself, but then she saw his throat move as he swallowed convulsively and let out a ragged breath.

"Oh god, Molly."

The expression of reverential awe on his face took her breath away.

"Kiss me, Sherlock," she whispered and she wasn't sure quite which way she meant it.

His eyes met hers again briefly and a flicker of humour flashed through his gaze. "Gladly," he said again and bent towards her.

His skin was hot on her bare thighs as he nudged her knees apart and settled between them.

Molly looked down at the top of Sherlock's head, dark against the pale skin of her legs and thought how incredibly surreal this night was turning out to be. She wondered for a split second if she was going to wake up in the morning surrounded by empty bottles of Riesling and unpacked boxes, with nothing but vague memories of a strange and vivid dream about Sherlock.

Then his mouth was on her and his tongue was exploring and she decided that even her imagination wasn't that vivid.

Sherlock's fingers dug into her thighs, holding her hips still when she bucked hard against his mouth. He was methodical and thorough and she had to bury her hands in his hair to keep from levitating off the bed. His tongue delved deep, slicking over her sensitive flesh with a steady pressure that built inside her like water against a dam. Then he slid one long finger inside her and began to thrust gently in time with the slide of his mouth against her sex.

And then she was coming apart under him, digging her heels into the mattress and crying out as the dam broke and pleasure coursed through her body in rolling waves.

She came back down to earth slowly, almost dreamily, and then lay back on her pillow panting. Her mind was in nearly as much shock as her body. Eventually, she managed to raise her head and look down at Sherlock. He looked smug, of course. "Wh-where did you learn to do  _that_?"

Sherlock chuckled into the crease of her thigh, making her twitch. "Why does everyone always assume that I have lived my entire life as a monk?" he said, sounding amused. "I assure you, I have  _not."_

Molly managed a breathless laugh, and then reached a hand out to him. "Show me," she said, without meaning for it to sound as much like a challenge as it did.

"Gladly," he said again, but there was no humour behind it this time.

He moved over her and reached for the button of his trousers. She stopped him.

He gave her a puzzled look, but obediently lowered his hand to brace himself on either side of her body. Then he watched as she brought her hands up, painting him with her fingers, touching him in all the ways she had always wanted to. With light fingers, she brushed her hands down his sides, breathing him in, feeling him tremble beneath her touch. She pushed herself up to taste his lips again as she reached for the button of his trousers. When she looked up at him again, his eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily and deliberately, as though he was having to remind himself to inhale and exhale. When she slipped her hand under the waistband of his pants he stopped breathing altogether. And when she wrapped her fingers gently around the hot, velvety length of him, he groaned and braced his forehead hard against hers. She slid her fingers over the hardened flesh once - twice and then a third time before he shuddered and yanked her hand away with a gasp.

And then the last of Sherlock Holmes' control snapped with an almost audible sound.

He kissed her hard, bruising her lips, plundering her mouth with his tongue as he kicked free of his trousers and pants. She tried to break away, gasping for breath, overwhelmed, but he captured her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes.

"Look at me, Molly," he said roughly. His eyes were black, and his expression fierce. He held her there as he positioned himself between her legs, spreading them further apart with his thighs, nudging at the entrance to her sex, hot and hard and  _right._

And then, in one long stroke, Sherlock Holmes was inside her.

Her back arched at the welcome invasion and she moaned, eyes closing as he thrust into her heat.

He released his hold on her jaw and wrapped his arms under her shoulders, shuddering against her, his head buried in the crook of her neck, his lips hot on her skin.

For a moment he did nothing but hold her, their bodies joined, all the space between them erased, the years of past longing no longer important. They were here and now and that was all that mattered.

Then Sherlock moved, and Molly's body rose to meet him.

He was gentle, but insistent. He would not let her relax under him, would not let her be passive. She could not retreat into her mind and give herself over to mere sensation. He kept her with him, kept his name on her lips, forced her to see him and to  _know -_ each thrust, each retreat - it was him, it was Sherlock. It was him and it always had been. He carried her with him, showed her that sex was no simple combination of sensory information, but also an indulgence of the mind. He filled her head as he filled her body, whispering in her ear as he moved in her, as his hands moved across her skin and made her every nerve-ending scream under his touch.

She had been right about what it would be like to have sex with him. It was absolutely terrifying. She was the centre of his focus, the sole object of his desire. It was overpowering and intense and Molly felt like she was going to combust, laws of thermodynamics be damned. She half wished for it, half craved the burn - a physical manifestation of the flame that grew inside her, building to an inferno.

Sherlock did not close his eyes. He was watching her as he rose over her again and again, muscles flexing, sweat standing on skin - hot and wet and slick. It was pure and glorious and brutal - all mental, all physical, all consuming.

Molly felt herself tighten around him, felt the escalating fire begin to tear her to pieces. She reached for it desperately, clinging to him, only vaguely aware of his name spilling from her lips over and over as the heat took her in a red wave and she cried out, her arms tightening, her muscles clenching.

She heard him gasp her name as he thrust home one last time, his head thrown back as he joined her, buried deep, pulsing hot inside her.

He stilled slowly and let his head drop forward, panting hard.

Molly reached for him, pulling him down on top of her sweat-slicked body. She buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. She could almost convince herself that she wasn't doing it to avoid seeing the moment that regret flickered across his features. She hated the worry that set in so immediately, but he was still Sherlock and this was…well, this was new - this was  _different._ Neither of those were qualities that Sherlock handled particularly well. She  _hoped_ \- but what she hoped and what she expected from him so rarely coincided.

Sherlock rolled ponderously to his side, taking her with him. The movement separated them at last, but he kept her close, held loosely in the circle of his arms. She was facing him across a few inches of rumpled pillow, their breathing mingled as it slowed gradually, the sweat cooling on their skin.

His dark hair was in chaotic disarray. She reached up and brushed a stray curl off of his forehead. It was a small act of intimacy that she allowed herself to indulge in despite her sudden self-consciousness. It would be far too easy to retreat back to the safety of physical distance and wait for him to close the gap. But Molly suspected that if she did that now, she would end up doing it always. And she was tired of being the one that waited.

He narrowed his eyes as he regarded her in the dim light. "Stop it."

"What?"

"You're thinking. Stop it."

"But, Sherlock - "

" _Molly_ ," he said, sounding aggrieved. "Whatever it is, it can wait until morning." He turned her in his arms, settling her back against his chest and fitting her against his body as if it were a space carved out especially for her. "Go to sleep."

He was warm and solid, and she could feel his chest rise and fall as his breathing slowly evened out.

They still needed to talk. They still needed to figure things out - what  _was_  this? What about her new job? How was this going to go forward? She couldn't see Sherlock being the long-distance relationship type. If only they had reached this point sooner -

"You're doing it again," he chided, his voice a sleepy rumble in her ear.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"Don't be sorry. Be asleep." His arms tightened around her, fitting her more snugly against his body. She felt him place a gentle kiss on the top of her head and decided to let the questions rest until morning.

Wrapped in his arms and surrounded by his scent, Molly drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* SO THEN. I hope the ratings change lives up to y'all's expectations. It looks like Sherlock and Molly are finally on the same page for a change! Stay tuned for more though, because I'm still not done torturing...um, I mean 'playing' with them yet.
> 
> My most sincerest, gracious thanks to each and every one of you who stops in to read each week! And to those that take the time to leave a comment - please know, you're a huge part of this endeavor, because it's all the sweet words and amazing encouragement that keeps me banging away at the keyboard even when I'd rather be banging my head against a wall. Bless you all!
> 
> And think generous thoughts about Katie F and allofmyheart for having to beta this chapter with a straight face. God, I love those amazing ladies. MWAH!
> 
> If anybody needs me, I'll be hiding under my bed and blushing furiously until sometime next month.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Molly woke with the sun shining in her eyes and the vague sensation that something about the universe had shifted overnight. She stretched and wondered muzzily what had possessed her to sleep naked. And then she felt a twinge of soreness in unaccustomed places, and the night before came flooding back in a rush.

She shot upright, but she could already tell - she was alone.

The bed was rumpled where Sherlock had slept, but there was no sign of him now. His clothes, which had been scattered across the floor from the door to the foot of the bed the night before, were gone.

Molly reached for her dressing gown and slid out of bed.

He wouldn't have left already…would he? Without a word? She tried not to get ahead of herself but was unable to completely suppress the doubt that prodded at her with bony fingers. She knew Sherlock would not only leave the flat without a word; he wouldn't think twice about leaving the country without so much as a note.

She cracked her bedroom door open and listened. The flat was silent. Toby appeared immediately, sliding through the gap and meowing his annoyance at having been kept out all night. He brushed past her with his tail in the air and leapt up onto the bed, curling himself into a furry ball on her pillow.

"Well, it's nice to see that  _someone_  would rather be in my bed," she muttered under her breath.

She pulled the door open the rest of the way and felt an embarrassing rush of relief. The door to the bathroom was closed, and a bar of light shone from beneath it. Sherlock was still here.

"Good morning," she said, tentatively. "I'm going to make some breakfast. So, um - take your time."

There was no reply from the other side, but she could perfectly envision the eye roll. Sherlock had never been much of a morning person. He was much more of a 'sometime after eleven' kind of person.

Molly smiled to herself, feeling mildly foolish as she padded down the hall to her kitchen.

She filled the kettle and turned it on, and then began poking around in her cupboards. She didn't have much on hand thanks to the impending move, but she decided she could probably manage eggs on toast. A quick rummage through her fridge provided the necessities, and she set about whisking the few remaining eggs together in a bowl.

Her mind wandered as she put the pan on to heat and pulled out the last few slices of bread. She and Sherlock could eat breakfast first, but then they were going to have to sit down and have a proper talk.

How were they going to do this? He had said that he wanted her to stay, but she  _couldn_ _'_ _t._ She'd long since given Barts her notice, and the hospital in Surrey was expecting her in less than two weeks. She chewed her lip as she considered the logistics. Would Sherlock take the train to visit her? It didn't really seem like the sort of thing he would be willing to do. All those people, all that chaos? Not really his preferred way of spending a weekend. It was hard to picture meeting him at the train station, anyway - chatting about their week, going about normal relationship things the way that normal couples did.

Which brought up another issue entirely. Were they a couple? They were something, she supposed, but she couldn't imagine calling Sherlock her boyfriend. It wasn't a word that would ever fit him. And they'd only just had sex once. That didn't mean they were 'together' anyway…did it? Did he want to be a couple? Did she? Would he be willing to meet her mother? Would he introduce her to his parents? She already knew his brother. She wasn't sure she could handle dealing with the rest his family if they were anything like their sons. The mere idea was daunting.

Of course, this was all pointless speculating if they couldn't figure out how to make things work between them after she left for Surrey.

She sighed as she poured the eggs into the pan. It was going to be a long conversation.

The move had seemed like such a good idea when she'd first thought of it. She'd latched onto ideas like 'fresh start', 'clean slate' and 'new beginnings'. It wasn't until she saw the puzzled disappointment on the department head's face when she'd tendered her resignation that she had really started to doubt her decision. She'd been so sure up to that point that she wasn't running away, that it wasn't  _because_  of Sherlock that she wanted to leave the city.

Dr. Williamson had tried to reason her into staying, but she'd been resolved.  _Stubborn,_ her mind corrected, and she made a face. She didn't want to regret her decision. She wanted to be excited about her new job - her new  _future._  But now she feared she was always going wonder what might have been if she had been able to stay. Barts was a state-of-the-art hospital, and her job had always been a satisfying challenge. Sure, it could pay better, but even as the junior pathologist at Barts, she'd still made more than the hospital in Surrey was offering. It had never been about the money, anyway. She might as well go ahead and own up to it, if only to herself. It had always been about Sherlock. His timing was bloody awful.

When the eggs were just about done, Molly put the bread into the toaster and then stuck her head out into the hallway. The light was still shining under the bathroom door.

Good grief. He took longer to get ready in the morning than most women she knew.

"Sherlock," she called. "Breakfast is ready."

She buttered the toast, dished up the eggs and set everything on the table, eyeing the spread critically until it dawned on her that Sherlock would neither notice nor care how his food was presented. She ducked back into the kitchen for two glasses of orange juice and then poured the tea, pausing to add sugar before she set the mugs on the table.

Sherlock still hadn't emerged.

Molly rearranged the silverware, then finally admitted to herself that she was dithering. She chewed her bottom lip and eyed the bathroom door speculatively. Surely he was ready by  _now?_  The food was going to get cold if he didn't put in an appearance soon.

The thought of Sherlock sitting down to a plate of cold eggs after their first night together was just mortifying enough to decide her.

She squared her shoulders, feeling rather ridiculously like she was doing something daring, and marched down the hallway.

"Sherlock," she called, rapping on the door with her knuckles. "Breakfast is ready. Are you, uh, ready?"

Still no response.

"Sherlock?"

She was beginning to have a truly terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knocked again.

"I - um, I'm going to open the door…okay?"

When he still didn't reply she took a deep breath and tried the knob.

The bathroom was empty.

She stood in the doorway for a long moment, completely unable to believe what she was seeing…or rather  _not_ seeing.

Molly had felt foolish before, and she had felt angry, but never in her life had she experienced such a dramatic combination of the two.

"That - that complete, utter, sodding  _bastard!_ _"_  she exploded finally, her voice shaking.

She was breathing hard, still staring into the tiny space as if she might suddenly spot him hiding behind the laundry hamper.

He had left. He had woken up in bed with her at some point during the night and just left without a word _._  Not even twelve hours after he had asked her to stay in London with him -  _for_ him - and he had just gotten up and sneaked out. Last night had ended up just like any other ridiculous one-night stand with any other ridiculous man. Was he really as typical as that? How could he be so awful? How could she have been so  _stupid?_

With cold fingers, Molly reached into the bathroom and switched off the light. Then she leaned back against the wall and pressed her hand to her mouth. God, she was a fool - a stupid, stupid fool. She blinked back the tears, refusing to let herself cry. She was  _done_  with wasting her feelings on Sherlock sodding Holmes.

Sniffling, she went back into her room and got dressed slowly. She pulled on an old, ragged jumper and sweatpants, not caring in the slightest how she looked. Why should she bother? She was only going to be packing all day, after all. She tried to ignore the sight of the rumpled bedclothes and childishly considered burning them.

Instead she pushed it out of her head and went out to confront the mess in her sitting room.

She'd managed to forget about the breakfast she'd laid out, and she looked down at the food on her kitchen table in disgust. It was too cold to eat now, even if she could have stomached the idea. The mere sight of the soggy toast and congealed eggs was enough to make her feel ill.

She stacked the plates and cups and dropped everything into the sink with a satisfying crash. The rest of the cleanup could wait. In a few hours, maybe she'd feel up to scraping bits of egg off of her dishes, but for now, she just wanted to lose herself in the mindless activity of packing. She wanted not to think, not to remember, to  _forget_.

Her sitting room still looked like a war zone, and she blamed that on the overwhelming sense of defeat she felt. She stood in the middle of the room and covered her face with her hands. Her cheeks felt hot and her chest ached. Damn the man. If only he'd just stayed away. If only she hadn't - .

The sound of a key in the lock started her out of her misery, and she looked up just in time to see Sherlock coming through the door, his arms loaded down with a pair of shopping bags and a drink caddy with two cups of coffee in it dangling from one wrist.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

"Molly," he said calmly as he manoeuvered himself inside and used his back to close the door behind him. "Would you take one of these?"

Molly stood frozen, too stunned to respond, much less move to help him.

He lifted an eyebrow at her lack of reaction, but made his way to the table and set the bags down, careful not to upset the coffee cups in the carrier.

"I see you got your keys back," he said, reaching into his pocket and giving them a shake before he deposited them back on the table near the door.

"Someone handed them in at the Three Harts the next day," Molly replied, dazedly. "Why did you have my keys?"

Sherlock frowned at her. "How else was I going to get back in?"

"You could have just picked the lock again." She had no idea what conversation she was having.

"I could have done, but I thought I would stick with the more traditional method." He cocked his head to the side and regarded her with pursed lips. "Are you alright? You're exhibiting mild facial vasodilation and swelling around the eyes, which indicate an on-going adrenal response. You're also sniffling, which means that you're producing reflex tears, which are caused by an emotional reaction in the sympathetic nervous system. You've been crying, or trying not to cry…and now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure it's considered rude to point that out. So I should probably have stopped before I got to that part."

Molly blinked at him, still having a hard time changing gears.

Sherlock looked uncertain and then rapidly progressed to visible discomfort. He glanced around until his gaze landed on the two coffee cups sitting on the table, and he seized them like a lifeline.

"Two sugars and enough milk to keep a small dairy in business - just how you like it." He thrust one of the cups out to her. "Though I don't understand why you don't just go ahead and drink milk instead. Clearly you don't actually  _like_  coffee, but you drink it because you feel that you  _should_  since everyone else does, which is - "

Molly kissed him.

She felt foolish all over again, but that wasn't important. It wasn't even ten o'clock in the morning, and she'd already had more emotional ups and downs in one day than she'd had in the entire two years of Sherlock's absence.

He hadn't left. Or rather, he  _had_ left, but he'd come back, and that was what mattered. And he'd brought her coffee, and apparently groceries.

Sherlock was a little stiff, but obligingly put his arms around her and drew her into his body. She knew that this was the sort of thing that would normally send him scrambling for the door. Emotional expression was anathema to the calm, collected persona he used as a buffer against the rest of the world. She smiled a little against his lips. He was trying - really trying, and it made her heart ache.

He drew back after a moment and looked down at her speculatively. "Why are you dressed like a homeless person?" His gaze narrowed. "You were planning to go back to your packing, weren't you? You thought I'd gone."

She gave him a watery smile and sniffled again. "You  _had_  gone. You can hardly blame me for drawing the usual conclusions."

"I had a few things to do. You were supposed to still be in bed when I got back. I had a plan."

Molly sighed and shook her head. "Sherlock, it's nearly nine-thirty in the morning. Not everyone sleeps in until eleven, you know."

He looked away and ran his hands through his hair, making the curls stand on end. "Well, one of my tasks took longer than I had anticipated. Doctor Williamson was not immediately available. Something about surgery taking precedence…or something. I wasn't really paying attention."

"Doctor - who? Williamson? Why?" Molly looked up at him in confusion. "Why on earth would you need to see Doctor Williamson?"

He snorted. "It's obvious isn't it?"

"Sherlock - "

"Right, sorry." He drew in a breath and looked at a point somewhere over her left shoulder. "To get you your job back."

"To get me my what what?" Molly gawped at him.

"To. Get. You. Your. Job. Back," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully.

Molly's mouth opened and closed a few times to no effect before she finally managed to relocate the speech centre of her brain. "You went to see Doctor Williamson?"

"Yes."

"To see if he would give me my old job back…at Barts?"

Sherlock looked at her as if she were a simpleton. "What other job would I be asking him about? Of course your old job at Barts." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Well - what did he say?" she managed eventually.

"He said yes, of course," Sherlock said, looking pleased with himself. "I can be very convincing."

"You didn't threaten him, did you?"

"What? No!" He gave her an offended glare. "No, I didn't  _threaten_  him. Don't be ridiculous. I mean - I would have, if I'd needed to, but it wasn't necessary. He was relieved that he wouldn't have to search for your replacement. He hates conducting interviews - probably because he suffers from a chronic social anxiety disorder. You'll still have to go in and rescind your resignation yourself, of course, but you can go back to work on Monday, and they'll take the past week out of your holiday leave." He hesitated and pressed his lips together, regarding her uncertainly. "If you want to, of course. You - you might not want to stay."

Molly's smile was tremulous, but she managed to keep her voice from shaking. "You already know I do," she said, softly. She reached up and laid her hand against his cheek. "Thank you, Sherlock. That was - well, that was incredibly thoughtful."

He cleared his throat and looked away. "You're welcome," he said, and then added. "Oh, and your landlord said you're welcome to renew your rental agreement as well."

She kissed him again, standing on tiptoe so that she could press her lips to his cheek. "You're rather wonderful, you know," she said, and hid her grin when he flushed. "You got me my job back,  _and_  you brought me groceries too?"

Sherlock fidgeted and cleared his throat again. "Well, I don't cook, but there wasn't much food in your refrigerator, so I thought I would pick up a few things so that you could make something - er, if you wanted to."

"I'm afraid I don't cook much, either," she admitted as she began unloading the bags onto the table. "I don't usually bother much for just myself. But I can probably manage something. There were eggs earlier, but - um…there aren't now."

He raised an eyebrow at her and very deliberately didn't look at the mess in the kitchen. "I see. Well, how unfortunate. As it happens, however, I'm not especially hungry right now anyway."

She set a loaf of bread on the table and looked up at him curiously. "Oh no?"

"No," he affirmed. He stood with his head up and his hands laced behind his back. "Actually, I uh - didn't sleep much last night."

"Oh?" Molly said. She still felt terribly off-kilter - at his behaviour and at her own response. There was a gleam in Sherlock's eye that she didn't recognize, but she doubted if he had much familiarity with what he was experiencing, either. She had a feeling they were both going to be getting used to this side of him at the same time.

"Yes. So I was thinking that…rather than having breakfast - would you like to go back to bed and not sleep some more?"

Molly looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I need to brush my teeth," she said, and made a dash for the bathroom.

They could have an early lunch instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope no one got mad and quit reading halfway through:) Bless his heart, our boy is trying.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your lovely comments on the last chapter. I did finally crawl out from under the bed around Wednesday. I had to drag myself out so I could write more stuff that will ultimately drive me right back under again in another chapter or two. I figure the ratings change is permanent so I might as well take advantage of it, right?
> 
> My usual profound thanks to Katie F and allofmyheart for their continued support, encouragement and tolerance. Spare a special thought for Katie whose responsibility it is to keep everyone in character, crowbar out the bits that don't belong, and occasionally throw the actual crowbar at me when I am being stubborn.
> 
> As ever, thank you for reading!


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Sherlock shrugged into his coat as he jogged down the stairs from Molly's flat and pushed out into a deceptively bright winter afternoon. The bracing air bit into his exposed skin, but he welcomed the chill on his heated face.

He had just kissed Molly goodbye. He meant to do no more than lay a perfunctory peck on her lips before he left to meet Lestrade. That's what he was supposed to do - that was what people did when they - cared...or something. But then she had smiled up at him, and her lips had been soft and pliable, and she had melted under him, sinking into his embrace and making those inexplicably delightful noises in the back of her throat and he'd - well, he'd lost track of time.

He broke away finally, breathless, but absurdly pleased at the sight of her mussed hair, reddened lips and the mildly dazed expression on her face.

"I'll see you tonight," he said gruffly, as he straightened the cuffs of his shirt. Then he reached for his coat and glanced at his reflection in the mirror near the door. He stopped and frowned at himself, noting his own similarly ruffled appearance. This was not how a consulting detective with an international reputation should appear on the streets of London. He looked like he'd been - well he looked like he'd been doing exactly what he'd been doing - thoroughly snogging his... his... well, his pathologist.

He tried to smooth down the riot of disheveled curls, then shot a censorious glare at the pathologist in question when she wasn't entirely successful in smothering her laughter.

"Sorry," she said, attempting to look contrite.

He had left her in the middle of her sitting room, gazing down at her scattered belongings. She mumbled something about going ahead with the move just to avoid the bother of unpacking, but after a moment of consternation, he realized she was most probably joking.

He hailed a cab and settled back into the seat for the ride to the station, grateful to have a few moments to compose himself before his meeting with Lestrade.

It had been an unusual twenty-four hours, to say the least.

He did not regret anything. He was not sorry that he had gone to Molly, nor was he sorry about what had happened afterward. It had all been…well, it had been quite good. The memory of Molly's heat and the breathless way she had said his name when she fell apart made him shift in his seat. He was treading over new ground and the unfamiliarity left him feeling oddly out of sync with himself. He was a stranger in a strange land within the confines of his own mind.

He needed to get back to the work - the real work - the mysteries and puzzles of actual importance. No more foolish domestic cases. They were insufficiently absorbing and a waste of his valuable time. He couldn't afford to let his mind rot by dwelling on such nonsense. He needed another legitimate challenge, something that would keep the incessant buzzing in his mind from turning into a scream.

The trifling cases he had been accepting to pass the time over the course of the previous month hadn't been enough. The buzz had been like the constant hiss of radio static that could be turned down, but never, ever turned off. He had been agitated and irritable - well, more tetchy than usual, at any rate. He had slept and eaten very little, and then only at John's incessant prodding. He had filled his days with unimportant cases, marginally interesting research and whatever experiments he could perform in the kitchen at Baker Street.

It hadn't been nearly enough. He had still wanted to crawl out of his skin to escape the constant noise.

It wasn't until the cab pulled to a stop outside New Scotland Yard that it suddenly occurred to Sherlock that he had experienced none of that usual mental chaos during his time with Molly. All night, from the moment he first arrived at her flat until his feet had hit the pavement this morning, he had been entirely at peace.

The realization stunned him. He had never experienced that absolute stillness without having to forcibly engage his mind. It was only ever the work or the drugs or...Molly?

The cabbie banged on the dividing window to get his attention, and he slid out of the cab, deliberately pushing the revelation and whatever it might mean out of his thoughts.

"There's been eleven in the past two months," Lestrade said, dropping a stack of file folders on the desk in front of Sherlock. "We can't say for sure that they're linked, of course, but it is a bit unusual."

"Unusual, yes," Sherlock murmured. He picked up the top folder and flipped open the cover. "Given that law enforcement logs an average of ten unidentified human remains each month for the entirety of the United Kingdom, eleven in London alone does seem a bit high." His eyes flicked rapidly over the gory photos and sparse detail in the case file.

Male of Eastern European descent, age somewhere between eighteen and twenty-three, found near six o'clock in the morning by a jogger in Hyde Park. No identifying marks on the body. Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head. The entry wound was located just above the bridge of the nose. It had shattered bone and cartilage to the point that facial recognition alone was impossible. The gun was a Glock 9 mm; it had been found lying next to the body. Gunshot residue on the hands and powder burns on the skin around the entry wound were deemed consistent with a suicide.

Aside from the odd positioning of the entry wound - most suicides chose to either place the gun in their mouth or against the temple of the dominate hand - It seemed like an unremarkable case. It wouldn't have attracted much interest at all if it weren't for the fact that the dead man was one of a growing number of unidentified bodies that had begun appearing in London with startling regularity.

The cause of death was always different, as were the places and circumstances in which the bodies were discovered. Age, race, gender - all varied. The only thing that linked these particular cases was the fact that none of the victims were identifiable. None had been carrying any form of identification, none had been traced to any missing persons reports, and none had been found in any DNA or fingerprint databases. They were dead, but there was no way to prove that they had ever lived.

On an individual basis, this wouldn't be considered terribly unusual. Hundreds of bodies went unidentified every year - most washed up on beaches or were discovered along the railway line, too damaged by trauma or the elements to be identifiable. But eleven bodies in less than two months, all in the Greater London area, was statistically significant. There was some link - there had to be. But it what it was, Sherlock had no idea.

He frowned at the files and then looked back up at Lestrade. "Can I keep these?"

"Yeah, of course. Those are your copies. Look them over and see if you can find a connection, because we're sure as hell not seeing it."

Sherlock paged quickly through the rest of the files, taking the occasional mental note. Four women, seven men, all between the ages of eighteen and forty. Three suspected suicides, two road traffic fatalities, one stabbing, one electrocution, one gunshot to the back of the head, one apparent heart-attack, and two whose cause of death had been listed as 'unknown'.

He would start by mapping out the locations where the bodies had been found. Then he would comb through the details on the police reports for any unusual findings. It could be that the most minute piece of easily-overlooked information could hold the key. No clue was insignificant. He would simply -

"So how're you doing, anyway? You, uh, alright?"

Sherlock looked up from the files. Lestrade was perched on the edge of his desk, watching him too closely. He narrowed his eyes. "Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be alright?"

"No reason. I was just - no reason." Lestrade stood and moved behind his desk, deliberately avoiding Sherlock's gaze. Suddenly consumed by a fit of fastidiousness, he started organising the stacks of paperwork that littered his desk.

Sherlock closed the file and clasped his gloved hands on top of the stack. "You doubt my ability to focus? Wondering if I am up to the task, given my apparent distraction when you visited my flat yesterday?"

"Well," Lestrade said, looking slightly guilty. "You seemed a bit preoccupied with...things."

"Detective Inspector, have you ever known me to let my personal life distract me from my work?"

"I've never known you to have a personal life."

"Just so. And you needn't start worrying about it now. I assure you that whatever may or may not be going on in my life at any given time has no bearing on my skills as a detective or on my dedication to a case."

"Right," Lestrade crossed his arms and arched one eyebrow at Sherlock. "So the fact that Molly is moving out of the city doesn't affect you in the slightest. Is that what you're telling me?"

Sherlock looked at him speculatively for a moment and then stood. He tucked the folders into his case. "You're not worried about my ability to work on this case at all, are you? You're  _curious_."

"I most certainly am not," Lestrade said, his expression indignant. "I'm just concerned, that's all."

"Nosey," Sherlock said with a nod.

"I am not  _nosey,_ Sherlock."

"Right, of course not. You're  _concerned,_ _"_  Sherlock affected a set of air-quotes around the word with his fingers. He gave Lestrade a withering look. "Please."

He gathered his things. Lestrade's unwelcome solicitude had already been dismissed as unimportant and irrelevant, but he couldn't resist the urge to add, "And for your information, Detective Inspector, Molly Hooper is not, in fact, leaving the city. She took a short holiday, but she will be back at work on Monday. Good afternoon."

He meant to go back to Baker Street.

Under normal circumstances he would have gone home and immediately unpacked the files - sorting and collating, mapping out distances, listing correlations - parsing any and all raw data into usable categories and subsets. He would have gone over every scrap of information, seeking some key that would unlock a new avenue of inquiry until something resolved itself into an actual, workable clue. And then he would have done it again.

Instead, he had given the taxi driver Molly's address and then refused to think about what that said about him.

He ended up sitting on Molly's sofa with the file folders spread out on the table in front of him as if he was playing some kind of morbid card game on an oversized deck. Despite his attempt to dissuade her, she had insisted on ordering in dinner from the Italian restaurant around the corner.

"I remember that one," she said as she eased down next to him on the sofa. She set a plate of pasta on the coffee table next to him and balanced another one on her knee. "That was the electrocution. I did the post-mortem and Howard submitted the report." She paused and took a bite of food, carefully angling her knees away from the spread of orderly file folders to avoid spillage. "He was found on the tracks just outside Charing Cross, but I don't think that's where he died."

"He was found  _on_  the third-rail of the train tracks, dead by electrocution, and you don't think that's where he died? He glanced at her curiously, but she wasn't looking at him.

"No, I don't," she said. "Oh bollocks, I forgot the wine." She set her plate down and wound her way through the slowly-diminishing stack of boxes. "I've seen death by third-rail a few times," she called from the kitchen. Sherlock could hear the musical clink of glass as she got her good stemware down from the top shelf of the cupboard. "The scorching pattern wasn't consistent with what I've seen before. I think he was electrocuted on purpose, but somewhere else altogether, and then I think he was dumped on the rails."

She returned to the sofa and sat down next to him again, close enough that her thigh brushed against his. He gave her a sharp glance, but she seemed unaware that she'd done anything in particular.

"Here," she handed him a wine glass, and then picked up her plate again.

"I don't drink wine, Molly." he said, looking down at the glass.

"Well, you can't eat tagliatelle alla bugatti with  _water._  I think Italy may have passed a law." Her lips quirked up into a lopsided smile.

"Just as well I am a British citizen, then, isn't it?" He sat the glass down on the table.

"Drink your wine, Sherlock," she said, without looking at him. She took a sip from her own glass, and then picked up the photograph again. "See the size of the burn marks? They could have been caused by the third rail, but usually there's more significant charring of the skin around the burns. In my opinion, this was caused by something that had a much lower voltage than the third rail." She took another bite of her dinner.

Sherlock blinked at her. "I see." He cleared his throat and absent-mindedly reached for his glass. "So in your professional opinion, this was murder?"

"Well, I can't be sure. I mentioned it on the findings I sent over with the police report, but my suspicions weren't considered probative." She shrugged. "You know how it is - if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck - "

"Then it's probably a suicidal duck," Sherlock finished with a scowl. "At least if you're one of the idiotic buffoons that make up the London police force." Engrossed in thought, he drained his glass and set it back down on the table with a thunk.

"To be fair, the consulting detective they normally used wasn't taking cases at the time." Molly took the file out of his hand and deftly exchanged it for the plate of tagliatelle. "They did their best."

Sherlock took a bite of food and then set the plate back down on the table, further away from Molly's high-handed interference. How many times had he told her that he didn't eat while he was working on a case? "Dr. Hooper, are you  _chiding_  me?"

"I would never," Molly assured him with the barest hint of a smile. "I'm sure there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for -"

"There  _was._ _"_

"See? I knew there must be." She stood and carried her dishes back into the kitchen.

He caught himself watching her leave the room, noting the flash of bare skin just above her waist where her shirt had ridden up. He frowned at the distraction, but didn't look away.

She did not have a sensual walk. Her hips did not sway provocatively as she crossed the room. Her gait was as straightforward and no-nonsense as she was, but he found it compelling nonetheless. She did nothing to intentionally draw his attention to the rounded shape of her backside, but draw his attention she did.

Sherlock realized his heart rate had sped up and his breathing was suddenly laboured. His memory - his  _perfect_  memory - replayed the night before in his mind in glorious, technicolor detail. Her smooth skin; the earthy, sweet taste of her sex, slippery under his tongue; the bud of her nipple, hard against his palm; the low, breathy moan she gave when he slid inside her; the moment when her body went taut and she cried out, pulling him over the edge with her.

He had fallen asleep with his arms around her feeling physically satisfied for the first time in - well, so long that he couldn't remember the last time. And he had thought - half hoped, if he were honest - that he might have got her out of his system, that maybe,  _maybe_  there was still a chance that he could defeat the weakness of spirit that made him want her so badly.

But in the dark hours of early morning he had woken up next to her and experienced pure, visceral terror with the realization that it had done no such thing. Not only had sex with Molly not purged the want he felt for her from his psyche, it had made the hunger burn deeper and brighter than ever before. He was hard and desperate with the wanting. He only kept himself from reaching for her then by practically catapulting out of bed -  _her_  bed, with sheets that smelled like Molly, and like sex - and flung himself into the bathroom to splash cold water on his warm face.

He had left her flat before dawn, telling himself he was going home, but knowing damn well that he wasn't, even as he hailed the cab that would take him to Barts.

And damned if he hadn't returned to her like some kind of medieval knight, laying her job down in front of her like the spoils from an epic battle.

Mawkishness; sentimentality; wretched, foolish, emotional nonsense.

And then he had taken her again. Thrusting hard into her body, dripping sweat and barely considered words as he reveled in the glorious indulgence of his baser instincts. It had been far too easy to lose himself in her, to focus only on his senses without thought. He tasted the salt of her skin; smelled the musk of her arousal; relished the sound of her moans - wanting nothing but to make her  _scream -_ and all the while watching her move beneath him, her hair spread over the pillow, her lips parted, her body rocking back under the force of his thrusts.

He had experienced an unfamiliar rush of animalistic satisfaction in the claiming of her body. While his mind resisted the abhorrent idea of ownership, the echoes of a primal, evolutionary past growled ' _Mine!_ _'_  as he emptied himself inside her with a shout.

Now, here he was, mere hours later, with a case in need of his attention, and still all he could think about was Molly.

He wanted her again. Badly.

Ever the addict.

Dammit. This wasn't a distraction he needed. He shook himself irritably, determined to push past the clawing fingers of desire that worked in him.

But it was no good. The moment Molly came back into the room, he was lost.

He startled her with the ferocity of his assault - stepping over the table and pressing his lips against hers, fingers reaching for the hem of her shirt to pull it over her head before he pressed her backwards. He was already hard - had been since she walked out of the room - and he would have taken her right there against the wall if he'd gone half a second longer.

"Bedroom," he managed, just.

They stumbled together back to her room. He turned their bodies at the last moment and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Molly's naked breasts were at just the perfect height then for him to lean forward and taste them. He put his hands on her back, drawing her to him while he suckled her, rolling his tongue around the hardening bud of her nipple. He smiled to himself at her gasp, and then felt her arms go around his neck.

He teased her with his tongue, biting the tender flesh with gentle attention while he unfastened her trousers and skimmed them down her thighs to puddle on the floor. She stepped out of them and he pulled her into his lap, bracing her knees on either side of him. Even through his trousers he could feel her heat, and it made him tighten and shudder against her.

They were face to face now, and he had to force himself to look at her, to not dismiss her from his overwhelmed brain while he tried to sort out the jumble of stimulus.

But an odd thing happened as he looked into her eyes - everything just fell away. All the pent up frustration from the case, all the questions, all the whisked-up, scrambled-up thoughts with no place to land - it all faded. There was only the here and now, and the warm, willing heat of Molly Hooper.

"God, Molly," he said in a hoarse whisper. He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She said nothing, merely quirked her lips into that gentle smile that he had come to associate with peace.

He kissed her roughly, then pressed his face into the crook of her neck, molding her body to his with the pressure of his hands. "Please," he said softly.

"Gladly," she replied, and pressed him backwards onto the bed.

Afterward, he left her there, drowsy and replete, and returned to the work that awaited him in the sitting room. His thoughts felt sharp and his mind was clear, and he was amused rather than annoyed when it dawned on him sometime later that he had been scratching Toby behind the ears for the better part of ten minutes.

Eventually, he did go back to bed - less because he needed the sleep than because it seemed like a more pleasant place to think through the details of the case. He fell asleep on his side with his hand resting gently on the gentle swell of Molly's hip.

He dreamt of death.

The smell of blood was pungent and metallic. He could taste it on the air. Though his mind screamed at him to look away, he could not. He counted the bodies - three, four, five - He tried to not look for the telltale shine of the girl's golden hair, though he knew he would see it.

" _Failure,_ _"_ he heard his brother say, disdain dripping from his words.

 _"_ _I tried,_ _"_  he gasped, counting the bodies again and again.  _"_ _I couldn_ _'_ _t save them. I tried._ _"_

" _And what do we call an unsuccessful attempt, brother, mine? Ah, yes, I believe I_ _'_ _ve mentioned it already -_ Failure.  _How many more before you give up this foolish vendetta? How many more will die for your cause?_ _"_

Sherlock came awake with a hoarse cry - terror, fear and anger pulsing through him in a red haze.

But this time - for the first time in his life - he wasn't alone. Molly's hands were on his face, her body pressed against his in reassurance. Her words were as soft as her touch. He was vaguely aware that she was speaking nonsense - shushing and gentling him like a small child, but it was comforting, and so he let her touch him and speak to him as the terror slowly bled away and his breathing gradually returned to normal.

He was not in a bullet-riddled dwelling in Dhamar, or a burning ship in Port Said, nor yet a bombed out safe house in Ashgabat. He was  _home._ He was back in London and, more still, in the arms of Molly Hooper. He was home and he was  _safe._ It was over.

He turned to her, still shaking, and rolled her beneath him. She soothed him still, her fingers brushing his sweat-drenched hair back from his forehead as he slid into her body. He pushed the dream away, losing himself in her warmth, her wetness, the feel of her skin against his - cataloguing her, thinking only of  _her._

Sexual arousal was a common response to a fear stressor. It made sense. The fight-or-flight instinct generated many of the same chemical reactions. The mind may differentiate, but the body was not so particular in the wake of the waning response. But there was more to it than simple chemistry. The intimacy inherent to the act of sex was a comfort in itself, but it was also an affirmation of survival - a reminder that his heart still beat in his chest and that oxygen still passed through his lungs.

He spent himself inside her, gasping, and let the pillow absorb the moisture on his cheeks when he collapsed beside her once more.

Molly drew him gently to her, bracing his forehead against her breastbone as she ran her fingers lightly through his hair. He fell asleep again with her voice whispering over him, "It's over. It was just a dream, and it's over. James Moriarty is dead.  _You won._ _"_

When dawn broke, and the sun climbed in through the open blinds, Sherlock awoke with no memory of his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had a surprisingly good time wandering around in Sherlock's brain for this chapter.
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful feedback! You just can't imagine how much your reviews mean to me. All of your comments and PMs help keep me banging my fingers on the keyboard rather than my head against the wall, which is what I am tempted to do on some days.
> 
> And to my lovely betas, Katie F and allofmyheart - May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be always at your back and may your OTPs one day become canon:) Love you both!


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

"So you convinced her to stay?" John had joined Sherlock at the lab that morning, ostensibly to assist him as he ran some trace analysis. But so far he was doing more talking than assisting. Sherlock was starting to regret having asked him to come.

"She has decided to stay in the city, yes," he said. He adjusted the sight on the microscope. It would seem that John didn't have enough going on in his own life the way he latched onto every little thing he saw - or  _thought_  he saw - going on in Sherlock's.

"How did you manage - "

"Don't you have a wedding to plan or something? Invitations to address? Little packets of rice to wrap up with tiny bows?"

"Sherlock - "

"You're not bored with the idea already, are you? Because unwillingness to participate in the planning phase of the wedding might indicate a deep-seated reluctance to actually enter the bonds of matrimony. I'd hate to think you were - "

" _Sherlock._ _"_

He sat back and blinked at John over the microscope. "What?"

John was giving him an exasperated look. "Stop trying to change the subject. I'm not going to start asking you about your feelings, for god's sake. I just want to make sure everything's…okay."

"Of course everything's okay. Why wouldn't everything be okay?"

"Well, I wouldn't know, would I? I haven't talked to you in two days."

"You've been staying at Mary's flat."

John sat back and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, yeah, but I did text you - three times. You ignored me. I just thought you might prefer having the place to yourself for a bit."

Sherlock went back to his slide. "That was entirely unnecessary. If I wanted you gone, you'd know."

"I have no doubt."

The door to the lab swung open and Molly came in with her arms full of the research he had asked her for. She was wearing her coat open over her regular clothes and had her eye protection propped on top of her head. She was either prepping for a post-mortem or had entirely forgotten that she had them on. Her hair was in a high pony-tail, and her cheeks were a becoming shade of pink despite the lack of makeup.

"Good morning," she said cheerily and flashed them both a quick smile.

"Hello, Molly," John said. He was watching her carefully, his arms crossed over his chest.

It was annoying to watch John try to deduce the situation based on Molly's behaviour. How did he think she was going to act?

"Molly, yes, good," Sherlock said. He stood and reached for the closest stack of journals. He wasn't optimistic that he would find any link in the trace evidence he was comparing, but it wouldn't hurt to be thorough. He certainly hadn't found any link based on the evidence recorded at the scenes.

"I think that's everything," Molly said. "I've got to do the post-mortem on Mr. Van Hope, but I'll check back in a couple of hours and see if you need anything else."

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said, without looking up from his reading.

"So you're staying, then," John said, addressing Molly.

"Um - yes, I am…for now," she said.

Sherlock glanced up at her, but she was looking at John.

"Well, that's good," John said. He crossed his arms and attempted to affect a nonchalant demeanor. "So, what made you change your mind?"

To her credit, Molly didn't even glance in Sherlock's direction, but the pink in her cheeks darkened to a blush.

"Oh, you know how it is," she said with an airy shrug. "Circumstances change. And Doctor Williamson did offer me a bit of a salary increase to stay, which made it too good to pass up." She quirked her lips up into a smile.

"I'm not surprised," John said. "You're very well regarded here, you know. It would have been a real loss to Barts if you'd gone."

Sherlock hadn't thought it possible, but Molly's face somehow managed to blush even darker. "Thank you, John. That's - that's very nice of you to say." She gave John a brilliant smile and then let her eyes flick to Sherlock before she turned to go. "Well, I'm off then. Mr. Van Hope awaits."

Sherlock watched her walk out the door. Her coat was too long to provoke any salacious thoughts based on the lush swell of her hips, but her neck was exposed, and really, he had an excellent imagination. An actual, visual reminder of the exact shape and curve of her backside was unnecessary - he remembered it quite well.

"Holy Mary, you've shagged Molly Hooper." John's voice was perfectly even, but his eyes were wide as saucers when Sherlock's eyes snapped up to look at him.

"What?"

" _You_ _'_ _ve shagged Molly Hooper!_ _"_  He said it louder this time, and his face seemed to settle into an even more comically shocked expression. Sherlock suspected incipient hysteria.

"While I am both astonished and gratified by such impressive deductive reasoning on your part, John, I've no doubt that Doctor Hooper would prefer that you kept your bloody voice down. She does still work here, you know."

John sat in stunned silence for a moment longer, still apparently unable to process this new information. Then he chuckled. "Well, I guess I know now how you managed to convince her to stay."

Sherlock cut him a quelling look. "I hardly think my relationship with Molly, sexual or otherwise, is any of your business."

"Your  _relationship?_ _"_  John rocked back in his seat, grinning like a fool. "You have a relationship now?" A look of realization passed over John's face and his grin grew even broader. "You've done it more than once, haven't you?"

Sherlock sighed and sat up to glare at his flatmate. "John, this is hardly the time or place -"

"No, no." John held his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm just…well, I'm just surprised is all."

Sherlock was seriously considering hitting him over the head with the quarterly edition of Journal of Cell Science if he didn't stop grinning like that.

"Is it really so surprising to you that two consenting people should enter into a physical relationship? Molly is an adult.  _I_  am an adult."

"Well -"

"And it is none of your business!" Sherlock cut in before John had a chance to say something that would make him reach for the annual index of The Journal of Forensic Science to hit him with instead. It was a hardback.

"Don't be so stroppy. I'm  _happy_  for you." John said, still grinning.

"Oh  _good,_ " Sherlock replied and bent his head back to his reading. "I am  _so_  relieved."

There were fifteen minutes of blessed silence before John rallied himself to weigh in again.

"Don't mess this up, Sherlock."

John said it softly, almost as if to himself, but Sherlock heard him well enough. He felt a flash of annoyance, but it faded quickly. John cared about Molly too, and his friend knew him all too well. John's fear was not unfounded, much as Sherlock hated to admit it.

What he hated even more was the knowledge that he couldn't make that promise. He couldn't promise to not mess up, because he undoubtedly  _would_. It was only ever a matter of time, but at least -  _at least -_ he had taken the chance. At least they had this for now. When it was over - and he knew that one day it  _would_  be over, because not even Molly would be able to put up with him forever - at least he would have the memories of this part. He would be able to look back on the time before he ruined her happiness, and, he acknowledged - if only ever to himself - his own.

"If you recall correctly," he said, instead. "You were the one encouraging me to pursue her in the first place - loudly and often. Is there any possible choice I could have made that would have kept you from discussing it with me?"

"I recall just fine," John agreed. "But now that you've done it -  _do it._ " Sherlock scowled out at him, but John ignored him and went on. "She cares about you, and she's a hell of a lot more understanding than she should have to be. I'm just saying - don't mess it up."

"Thank you for your completely unsolicited advice regarding my romantic life,  _Doctor_  Watson," Sherlock replied with a sneer. And then he went back to his work.

Sometime later, he looked up from the journal he was reading. John was sorting through slides and comparing notes, working steadily, focusing diligently on the information in front of him. John was spending his day off in the lab at Barts for no reason other than loyalty and friendship.

"My life," he blurted, startling John out of his sorting, "is spent in one long effort to escape the commonplaces of existence."

John sat back, but said nothing.

Sherlock hated the awkward burn in his chest. He was not one to open up. He didn't share his feelings. This just wasn't something he  _did._ But John deserved…well, more.

After a moment, he went on, softly. "She makes my mind quiet, John." Sherlock glanced up at his friend, but John remained silent, waiting. "This," he said, tapping his fingertips hard against the side of his head, "This is constant noise without cessation.  _Ever._ Without the work, or the drugs - " He saw John flinch, but pushed on, "I cannot turn it off. I cannot rest. There is no such thing as peace without forceful engagement - or chemical disengagement - of my mind."

His heart was pounding like he'd run halfway across town. There was a reason he didn't do this.

"Molly?" John said. It was a prompt as much as a question.

He looked away, but nodded. "The noise - it goes away when I'm with her - when I can concentrate on just her."

"She's not a bloody puzzle for you to solve, Sherlock," John warned evenly.

"But, that's just it," he said, looking back up at John, desperately wanting his friend to understand this. "That's exactly what she is - a puzzle. But the solution is never the same twice. She is always something of a mystery even to me - especially to me. I can go to her, and she accepts what -  _who_  I am." He took a deep breath. "Her body -"

"Okay," John interrupted, sitting forward and reaching for his slides again. "This part I don't need to hear.  _This part_  will get you killed by a tiny pathologist."

Sherlock frowned at him. "Then why did you bring it up?"

"Because I didn't expect the conversation to lead to any version of 'I'm having sex with Molly!"

His frown turned into a scowl. There were a lot of reasons why he didn't do this sicking-up of ridiculous sentimental nonsense. "Fine then."

" _Fine,_ _"_  John replied with obvious relief, then went back to his slides.

Molly came to Baker Street after her shift ended.

"Hello?" She knocked and then leaned in over the threshold to peer past the door. "Sherlock?"

"What are you doing?" he gave her a puzzled look over the papers he was reading.

He could see her blush from across the room, but at least she had the sense to take his reply as her invitation to enter. "I didn't want to just wander in without knocking," she said, pink-cheeked and defensive. "I was being polite." She had take-away in one hand and her bag across her shoulder, both of which she carried straight into the kitchen.

"How very British of you," he commented dryly, and then added, "And entirely unnecessary. I left the door open for a reason." Then he dove back into his research. He looked up again a few minutes later when she sat a plate in an empty spot on the coffee table.

"Your kitchen is a disaster area," she announced, and then took a seat next to him.

"Mrs. Hudson refuses to clean it until I take the entrails out of the vegetable crisper," he said, and then eyed the plate she had placed in front of him. "What is that?" He knew exactly what it was of course. It was chicken tikka, but what it was doing on his coffee table while he was working on a case, he couldn't possibly imagine.

"Dinner," she said, smoothly, taking a bite of her own.

"Molly," he began, rolling his eyes heavenward. Were they going to have to have this conversation  _daily?_  "You know I don't - "

"Yes, I know  _you_  don't, but  _I_ do, and I'm not going to be able to eat if you're not eating."

He opened his mouth with the intention of suggesting that she either learn to get over it or else eat before she came over in the future, but before the words had a chance to tumble unconsidered out of his mouth, he stopped and noticed the hopeful expression on her face.

Noting his hesitation, she gave him a faint smile "Indulge me?" she said. "You don't have to clean the plate. Just so I don't feel like I'm eating alone."

He gave a deep sigh and rolled his eyes, but obliged and took a bite. Then he raised his eyebrows and gave her a pointed look.

"Thank you," she said, then settled back to eat her dinner. She looked surprisingly at home curled up in the corner of the sofa like that.

With effort, he turned his attention away from her. He wasn't dismissing her from his mind altogether, as he would have done in the past, but for now he relegated her presence somewhere further down the hierarchy of his observations. He did have work to do, after all.

Sherlock's notes were piling up, but little usable data was filtering to the surface. The cases just did not seem to fit together in any logical way. He had tried referencing, cross-referencing, re-referencing - and then starting all over again. Still nothing.

The deceased were dead and they were unidentified. Those appeared to be the only similarities that all of the cases shared.

Of the eleven, there were six that had one other factor in common, and that was that the face of the victim was too badly disfigured for any kind of positive identification to have even been possible. Which, in and of itself, may or may not be probative. Reason dictated that the disfigurement was the reason for the lack of identification, but it did not necessarily follow that an intact facial structure would have led definitively to an ID. The other five were a testament to that.

But at the very least, it did give Sherlock an extra pile to sort the files into. Even that felt like something of a victory considering how little else he'd managed to accomplish.

This case was infuriating.

The fact that he wasn't entirely sure it actually  _was_ a case, doubly so.

Sherlock resurfaced from his notes later in the evening to find John returned home and tapping away on his laptop. Molly was still on other end of the sofa, curled up with a forensic pathology journal open in her lap. She'd taken a shower at some point. Her hair was still heavy and dark and had left a damp patch on the shoulder of her jumper. Somehow, the plate Molly had left for him had ended up empty. He hadn't the slightest recollection of how it had gotten that way, however.

John stood and stretched. "All right, I'm done. I have to be at DMS tomorrow morning. You two have a - " He stopped and blinked at them both. "Yeah, no, it's still too weird." He shook his head and went off to his room, muttering to himself.

Molly chuckled and Sherlock cut a look at her. "Was that funny? Why was that funny?"

"No - well, yeah it is kind of funny."

He wrinkled his nose at her. "What is?"

She let out an exasperated sound and sketched out a vague shape in the air with her hands, as she tried to formulate her thoughts. "Well, I mean - this. You know,  _us._ _"_

"Us? You think we're funny?" He frowned, trying to puzzle out her meaning.

"No - well, not in that way." She stopped and screwed up her face in frustration. "What I  _mean,_ _"_  she said finally, "is that John doesn't know what to make of us, but - well, neither do I." She looked at him with a pained expression. "That's ridiculous, I know, but I just - I just wish I knew where we stood," she finished lamely.

"Fine," Sherlock said, and sat back so that he could face her. It was apparently his day for mawkish nonsense. Wasn't he the lucky one. "Can we just get it out of the way now and be done with it?"

Molly blinked at him in surprise. "Really? Oh, um - sure" She seemed at a loss for a moment, and chewed on her lower lip as she considered her response. "Okay let's just - " She took a deep breath. "So, am I your - "

"No."

She nodded. "And you're not my - "

"God, no."

"But we're - "

"Something, yes."

She nodded and looked thoughtful. "Okay, then. I'm glad we got that sorted." She glanced up at him. "Tea?"

"Yes, thanks." He went back to his research feeling more at ease.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ah, John, always with the helpful advice:) Listen to the man, Sherlock! Case details are ramping up. More to come in the next couple of chapters!
> 
> Thank you for reading and reviewing. I am grateful to each and every one of you who takes the time to stop in and read each week.
> 
> Public Service Announcement - there probably won't be an update next week. I'm falling a bit behind on the actual writing part. I've got the whole thing plotted out, but actual AIS time (that's 'Ass in Seat') has waned dramatically over the past couple of weeks and the muse is, quite frankly, being a giant B. Mayhaps I will be struck with inspiration and write like the wind over the course of the next week- hopefully I will - but if not, Chapter 25 will be posted the following Sunday. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> To Katie F and allofmyheart - I love you guys so very much, you don't even know.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

The Baker Street flat was a lot louder than it used to be.

Between John and Mary's rampant domesticity and Molly's regular presence in the evenings, Sherlock despaired of ever experiencing another quiet moment. He had tried bringing the matter to everyone's attention, but discovered that if he snapped at them, Molly would take that as her cue to go home for the night. Which was ridiculous. Now, when they were too noisy for his liking, he confined himself to scowling in their direction. It was much less satisfying but had the added benefit of keeping Molly in the flat, which was where he preferred she stay.

That wasn't to say that he needed her there or that he was distraught when she left, of course. Her departure simply caused more of a disruption to his work than the extra noise did.

In the past six weeks, they had settled into a vague sort of routine. Most evenings Molly came to his flat directly after work. If she didn't, he texted her and demanded that she come at once. Occasionally, she begged off with the excuse that she had things to catch up on. On those nights he rolled his eyes, packed up his files and showed up on her doorstep. The first few times she had opened the door to find him standing there, she had blinked in surprise and then simply stepped out of the way and let him in.

She never questioned his desire to be near her, and he never brought it up.

Wherever they ended up - her flat or his - their evenings followed a fairly predictable pattern. They spent the early hours in comfortable companionship - sometimes in conversation, sometimes in individual pursuits. She would usually make an attempt to get him to eat something - sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

He was always aware of her. If she were stretched out on the sofa next to him or moving around her kitchen, some part of his mind was always conscious of her whereabouts. Over the course of the night, that awareness seemed to expand until he was focused on her every move - every shift of her legs, every deep exhalation. And then, when the compulsion got to be too much, he pushed away from his work and went to her.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to cave in to the gnawing desire he felt for Molly in the first place, and then he had hoped he could assuage it by giving in - just once - but to no avail. It hadn't been enough. Every time he came to her, he wondered if he were one step closer to reaching saturation - if maybe, with enough repeated applications, he could stop craving her.

But every time he touched her, every time he pressed his mouth to her skin, every time he buried himself inside her, he knew that it was futile. He could no more stop desiring Molly than he could stop drawing air into his lungs.

Tonight, she had blown into the flat on a gust of bitter winter air, pink-cheeked and exclaiming over the obviously inhospitable weather the way people tended to do. He still had no idea why.

He had been caught up in the details of Lestrade's latest unidentifiable body and paid little attention to her arrival.

Two more bodies with no means of identification had been brought into the morgue since he had first taken the case. As yet, there still appeared to be no link.

Lestrade was apologetic. Without a way to connect any of the incidences, he had been forced to relegate it to the back burner in order to deal with more immediate cases that had the distinction of definitely being cases.

Sherlock wasn't ready to set it aside yet.

He continued working other cases as they caught his interest, but he was far from having given up on the mystery surrounding the unidentified bodies. No matter what else he was working on, he stopped and flipped through the files for a few minutes each day. Something about this case stayed with him, niggling constantly at the back of his mind. He just wished he could pin down what it was.

Unperturbed by his lack of acknowledgement, Molly had settled in, chatting amiably with John and Mary until it was time for them to leave for some appointment or another. Wedding related, most likely. Dull.

Blessed silence descended over the flat after they'd gone. At some point, a sandwich appeared near his elbow, but he pushed it aside untasted.

There were a total of thirteen files now, eight of which involved bodies that were too disfigured to allow for a physical ID. Both of the crisp, new, yellow folders contained photographs that placed them solidly in that category. Disfigured so that they would be unidentifiable, or unidentifiable because they were disfigured? It was an infuriating game to play - seeking a pattern where one may or may not exist. It would have been a pointless exercise but for this nebulous  _feeling._

After concluding yet another fruitless search for order in the midst of random chaos, Sherlock closed the files and stacked them on his desk. His eyes felt gritty and his back ached; he'd been at it far too long tonight.

He looked around and realized he was alone in the sitting room. A quick glance up the stairs told him that John and Mary had already gone off to bed. The door was closed and the lights were off. Sherlock had completely missed their undoubtedly boisterous return.

He wondered where Molly had got to, and only then realized just how late it had become. The night had passed on into the early hours of the morning without his noticing.

Guilt plagued him as he tiptoed into his room. He knew he should have gone to bed with her - that he should have, in fact,  _taken_  her to bed - much earlier in the evening. It was their first night together in several days thanks to her schedule and his case load, and he had, ostensibly, ignored her the entire evening. He remembered her offering to head home, but he had prevented that much, at least - had insisted that she go on to bed with a vague promise of joining her soon thereafter. That had been some hours ago though. She would be fast asleep by now. Was she disappointed? Angry?

It annoyed him that he felt guilty. It annoyed him that he worried about how she might  _feel_.

He was working on a case, wasn't he? Wasn't this his  _job?_  Surely he should be allowed to continue on as he always had, at least in this regard. There were  _reasons_  he had always sworn off romantic entanglements before. How was he supposed to make room in his life for the complication of another person? He simply wasn't cut out for it. How was he supposed to be available to someone else when he was on a case that demanded his undivided attention?

Sherlock managed to hold onto his irritation right up until he saw her, lying in easy slumber on the far side of his bed.

He froze, looking down on her in fascination. She was on her back with her face turned toward him. Her hair was spread out behind her in a dark fan, her lips just barely parted. She slept with her hand near her face - an affectation left over from childhood, he was sure. She had been neither disappointed nor angry, he realized as watched the even rise and fall of her chest for a long moment. She had simply left him to his work and gone to sleep.

His intention was to get into bed without waking her, and then to carefully drape his arm over her so that he could touch her while he rested for a few hours. He didn't understand the impulse, but he saw no reason not to give into it.

He stripped down to his boxers and accomplished the first part easily. But when he reached for her, his fingertips encountered nothing but bare skin. Surprised, he slid his hand across her hip and made the delightful discovery that she had gone to bed in one of his shirts - and absolutely nothing else.

Sherlock had resisted Molly Hooper for years. He had, in fact, had little trouble in resisting her for most of the duration of their acquaintance. Resisting her had never been a challenge.

Until now.

Now, he couldn't have resisted her if his life had depended on it.

He couldn't help but wonder, as he burrowed his way under the duvet, if there would ever come a time when he didn't want her this way. If he could ever find satiety, and not crave the peace and satisfaction he found when he lost himself inside her.

And then he situated himself carefully between her thighs and decided that, for now at least, the answer was no, and he was surprisingly okay with that realization.

He woke her with his tongue between her legs.

She came awake with a moan, reaching for him with his name a husky exhalation on her lips.

"No," he whispered, deflecting her questing fingers. "Put your hands above your head."

She hesitated, but then did as he asked, curling her fingers into the headboard above her. She was fully stretched out - giving herself over to him entirely.

Satisfied, Sherlock returned his attention to the warm temptation of her sex.

She was sweet. The fact that a woman could taste so  _enticing_ , had surprised him initially, but that it should be Molly whose flavour made his mouth water and his cock grow hard seemed somehow predestined. He would be contented to lose himself here, surrounded by the textures of the slick, hot flesh beneath his mouth, the smooth skin of her thighs under his fingertips, the dark, wiry hair that brushed his lips and nose as he pressed deeper, making her gasp above him. Her scent was indescribable - a seductive call that his body answered without conscious thought.

He parted her with his fingers, opening her to him so that he could lap at the sensitive bud that was hidden there in the way that he knew would make her cry out and buck against him.

He could make her come like this, but he wasn't going to. Not yet. He wasn't ready to let her go as easily as that.

Molly writhed under his mouth, and he felt visceral pleasure at the knowledge of her desperation. Without granting her the slightest respite from the sweep of his tongue, he slid two fingers inside her. Her back arched off of the bed and she moaned low in the back of her throat. He expected her to forget and reach for him again, but she didn't. The headboard creaked under the force of her grip, but she held tight.

He allowed himself a glance up at her from his position between her legs. The uncertain light from the window illuminated her so faintly that she seemed to be glowing from within. Her eyes were closed, her concentration turned fiercely inward. She was moving against the rhythm he set, flexing her hips to come down hard on his fingers as he thrust them inside of her. She was fighting towards her completion, entirely absorbed by her climb toward the peak.

He almost hated to disappoint her. Almost.

But he was far too selfish to give without also taking.

He stilled and gently slid his fingers from her wet heat.

"Wh-why did you stop?" Molly demanded breathlessly. Her own fingers were still curled so tightly around the slats of the headboard that, even in the dim room, he could tell that her knuckles were white.

He moved over her, divesting himself of his pants and kicking them free before he settled between her legs. He looked down at her wordlessly.

"Oh," she said, a soft exhalation of breath.

Sex was, at its core, nothing but a purely biological act. He found nothing mysterious or perplexing about intercourse. It was an evolutionary impetus - a drive that had been carved into the base of human DNA long before they had ever thought to come down out of the trees. No, the simple exchange of fluids in return for the resultant flood of pleasurable neurochemicals had never caused him any anxiety, and certainly no  _fear_. It was true that it was an activity that he rarely indulged in, but he had not been the virgin that everyone seemed to think he was for a very long time. He had been a junkie for many years, and there was a reason why sex and drugs were linked so inextricably together.

No, it wasn't the act itself that made his chest constrict and his breathing come short as he prepared to take her. It was this - this intimacy that he could not seem to get used to. Her eyes were sparkling up at him, mere inches from his own; her breath mingling with his; her heart beating a sympathetic cadence. If he had believed in the existence of a soul, it would have been at this moment when his was most exposed.

He held her gaze as he moved against her, his erection pressing hard into the soft skin of her belly. He ached to lose himself inside her, wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, sink into her waiting, welcoming heat, and then let the burn of pleasure erase everything else. But he wouldn't do that just yet. He wanted to watch her expression change when he slid into her.

Sex was as much an experiment to Sherlock as anything else he was curious about. He was an inveterate scientist. Their lovemaking was more than simple desire and indulgence. It was action and reaction, applied stimulus and observed response. Observation was key.

As always, she did not disappoint.

Her lips parted in a gasp and her expression lost the last of its self-consciousness when he sheathed himself inside her. He could practically see the moment her cerebral cortex signaled the release of dopamine and pleasure took over, but her eyes never wavered from his. He had never seen anything as fascinating as the sight of her face as he made love to her.

"Molly," he sighed and pressed his forehead against hers.

"Shhh, Sherlock." She loosened her grip on the headboard finally, sliding her fingers into his hair and guiding his lips down to hers. She kissed him, gently, tenderly and then, holding his face between her hands, she brushed her lips across his cheeks, his brow, his eyes. Then she flexed her hips, and he thrust into her, instinctively, with something very like a growl. He could feel her lips curl up into a smile against his skin.

He wondered if she would ever stop surprising him. Somehow, he doubted it.

He helped her strip the shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Her skin was smooth and pale as porcelain. It was almost hard to believe that it could be warm to the touch. Bearing his weight on one arm, Sherlock trailed his fingers lightly across the swell of her breast, pausing to brush the calloused pad of his thumb across the sensitive peak until she bucked and wriggled ineffectually beneath him.

"Sherlock!" she said, tilting her hips upwards in demand.

His smile broadened. "Patience."

"But I don't  _want_  to be pa - unh!"

He rocked into her body and she broke off with a groan.

It was incredibly satisfying.

He set a slow tempo, not nearly fast enough to suit her - or him either for that matter - but he wasn't ready for this to be over yet.

There wasn't much that he could give Molly. He simply wasn't capable of providing everything that she wanted or deserved.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that, despite her decidedly non-traditional career path - or perhaps because of it - Molly longed for a traditional personal life. She wanted love, a husband and children, a home - all the things he wasn't equipped to provide her with. It was inevitable that she would one day figure that out. When she did, there were only two possible outcomes - she would leave him and find someone better suited to that life, or she would stay and come to hate him for what he was slowly taking away from her.

He couldn't give her the future she hoped for. But he could give her this much at least - he could give her pleasure right now. He could do penance with his body for the future sins that he would one day be guilty of. It wouldn't be nearly enough, but it was what he had to give.

He stroked into her, hard.

Molly moaned and arched her back, pressing her breasts upward in unconscious invitation.

It was an offer too good to refuse. He lowered his mouth to taste her, pushing away the future for the sake of the now.

She was so responsive, so easy to learn. Her body was always a mystery to him, but it was one that she willingly let him solve each and every time. She might seem reserved and timid in other respects, but in bed she allowed herself freedom from her inhibitions; she held nothing back.

"Sherlock!" she panted, the motion of her hips growing erratic with need. "Please!"

He caught her jaw in his hand and angled her head up for a deep kiss, tangling his tongue with hers until she broke away, breathless. His own movements were becoming less controlled, the speed of his thrusts increasing as he came closer to his tipping point.

He was too selfish to let her go without him, but he also wasn't about to leave her behind.

Bracing his weight on one arm, Sherlock slid his other hand between them, seeking and finding the place where their bodies were joined, stroking her gently as he continued to move inside her until she convulsed around him, her hands fisting in the sheets, gasping his name as she came.

He felt her muscles tighten around him, gripping his cock as she rode out the waves of her orgasm, but he held himself under tight rein until the last of the tremors had passed through her. When the tension eased from her body and she relaxed beneath him once more, he leaned forward and captured her suddenly cold lips with his own. And then, with two or three more artless thrusts, he fell over the edge, emptying himself inside her.

They didn't speak afterwards. He slid his arm underneath her and turned her away from him so that she was nestled into the curve of his body, his free hand flat against the smooth plane of her belly. He listened to the sound of her breathing until it evened out into the regular cadence of sleep. And then he drew her close and buried his nose into the warm curve of her shoulder, inhaling the scent of shampoo and soap and the slowly fading musk of sex. There was an odd feeling in his chest, as though a balloon had been inflated somewhere just beneath his ribs, making it feel almost painfully tight. He wished for a moment that he were a different kind of man - the kind of man that understood amorphous concepts like love and romance, the kind of man that could make Molly Hooper happy, the kind of man that could make her  _stay._

He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck and then let himself follow her into sleep.

The next day began with a rare morning of idleness. Molly had the day off and Sherlock was preparing a series of experiments to test cellular breakdown rates that he could conduct at his leisure over the course of the day without leaving the flat.

Mary had departed early for work, but John lingered over his tea, slouched in his chair and tapping periodically on his laptop. His shift at DMS didn't start until later in the afternoon.

Sherlock reclined on the sofa across the room, still in his dressing gown, shower-damp hair curling around his ears as he contentedly watched Molly flutter around in the kitchen.

"Tea," she said perfunctorily as she swept into the sitting room and handed Sherlock a mug. She dropped a quick kiss on the top of his head before she swept back out again.

"Huh," John said.

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped up to meet his friend's amused eyes over the rim of his laptop screen.

John shrugged. "Oh, you know, nothing. I've just always wondered whether you were an arse man or not." He smiled into his mug. "And now I know."

Sherlock scowled at him, caught out. He'd been watching Molly with interest as she walked away. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Relax," John said with a chuckle. "There's no harm in appreciating your girlfriend's attributes."

"She is  _not_  my girlfriend," Sherlock protested as though John had just suggested she was something far more offensive.

John shot him an incredulous look. "She's not?"

"No," Sherlock assured him. "Most assuredly not."

John sat back in his chair with an amused grin and an arched eyebrow. "So, Molly Hooper just spent the night with you  _again_ , having - one can only imagine -  _terribly_  intellectual sex, and then the pair of you got up and showered together -  _"_  Sherlock shot him a dark look and John snorted. "I may not be as observant as you are, but even I know what shower sex sounds like, my friend. And you're still going to sit here and tell me she's not your girlfriend?"

"That is correct."

John set his mug down and threw his hands up. "Alright, I give up. What is she, then?"

Sherlock gave him a blank look. It was one of the many shortcomings of the English language that there did not seem to be a single word that would truly encapsulate what she had become to him.

"She's my Molly," he said finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all so much for patiently waiting for this chapter! I'm afraid my posting schedule is going to be a bit more sporadic in the future than it has been up until now. Real life can be so obnoxious sometimes.
> 
> As ever, your messages and reviews were greatly appreciated. I am gobsmacked by the number of follows and reviews that this story has gotten thus far, and I am so grateful to each and every one of you for coming along for the ride. I'm still having such a good time with these guys!
> 
> Katie F and allofmyheart, y'all keep me right:)


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Molly had wondered a lot over the years what it might be like to kiss Sherlock or to go to bed with him. She had even pondered, once or twice, what a date with him might entail. But it had honestly never occurred to her to wonder what an actual, ongoing relationship with Sherlock Holmes would look like.

And probably a good thing too, because it was nothing at all like what she would have anticipated. It was…surprising.

That wasn't to say that it was full of surprises, which was, quite frankly, what she would have expected - knocks on the door in the middle of the night, gunshots, at the very least an occasional explosion. It was actually quite the opposite. It was strangely… _normal._

She was willing to concede that normal was all a matter of perception, and that one person's normal could seem truly very strange to someone else. For instance, she knew quite well that most people would consider it somewhat unusual to go over crime scene photos during dinner or to debate the merits of univariate analysis of the ulna versus clavicular rhomboid fossa in determining the sex of a cadaver, while they brushed their teeth before bed. But for them it  _was_  normal. Their relationship was an extension of the point at which their professional lives intersected, and for both the consulting detective and the pathologist, their work was so much a part of who they were that it felt…well,  _right._

That didn't mean that they had everything in common or that they were in accord on all things.

Sherlock scoffed derisively when Molly sat down to read a novel with a windblown couple in a state of near undress splashed across the cover, or when she joined John and Mary in front of the telly to watch 'foolish, inconsistent, irrelevant nonsense.' Molly rolled her eyes at some of Sherlock's more nebulous experiments, chided and cajoled him into eating meals and despaired of ever getting him to clean up after himself at the lab.

In other words - entirely normal for them, but with affection.

She couldn't help the lingering uneasiness she felt in regards to their chances for anything long-term. Sherlock had always been so changeable and so easily bored that it seemed inevitable to her that one day - a month from now, or ten years from now - he would simply have had enough of her and decide to move on. She comforted herself with the realization that no one - not even regular people who weren't trying to navigate a relationship with Sherlock Holmes - got any guarantees.

One day it would be over, this  _thing_ that she had with Sherlock. Sooner or later he would tire of her and decide that he didn't want her anymore. But there was little doubt in her mind that, whatever the future might bring, right now Sherlock Holmes  _did_  want her - very much.

In most settings, he was still as cool and aloof as ever. Entering into a relationship with Molly hadn't changed that in the slightest. He was not suddenly demonstrative or effusive. They did not hold hands or cuddle on the sofa. In front of the rest of the world, there was no obvious change in their interactions with one another.

When they were alone, however, it was an entirely different story.

Sherlock was an unexpectedly voracious lover. Molly got the impression that he still held something of himself back, but he seemed less inclined, or maybe less able, to retreat behind the wall of disinterest than he used to be, at least with her. The night that he had come to her flat had been something like the breaking of a dam. Once breached, there was no stemming the tide.

They spent their days much as they ever had, if in each other's company more often. But at some point during their evenings together, Sherlock would push away from his work and come to her - usually without a word, but always with an air of barely suppressed intensity. On another man she might have thought of it as passion, but on Sherlock it seemed to be something else entirely - hunger, perhaps. It never even occurred to her to disappoint him when he put his arms around her while she worked in the kitchen or dropped to his knees in front of her chair. Why would she? She wanted him at least as much as he wanted her. And always in the back of her mind was the nagging thought -  _how much longer until it_ _'_ _s over_?

He was generous in bed, which had been another surprising discovery. When he pulled her into his arms or pressed her down onto the sofa, the resulting rush of arousal became an almost Pavlovian response. He was demanding, of course, but he was also focused and determined, and he made her body sing.

Stoic and cold he might seem most of the rest of the time, but when they were together in a tangle of limbs and gasping breath, he was anything but.

Molly never asked if he was doing research, but if he wasn't, then he was even more imaginative than she had ever given him credit for. She lay panting on her bed one night, sweat cooling on her skin, with Sherlock's heavy body pressed against her side, and wondered dazedly if anyone would even believe her if she were to tell them.

Right now he was ignoring her. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten she was there. Either was a possibility.

As soon as John left to catch The Tube, Sherlock dove into his experiment with the kind of glee usually reserved for primary school children on an unexpected holiday. He wandered around the flat in his dressing gown with safety googles on, muttering equations under his breath and scribbling notes on whatever scrap of paper he found handy. His preparations went on for the greater part of the afternoon, so Molly situated herself at one end of the sofa in the sitting room and stayed well out of his way. She flicked an occasional glance up at him from behind her reading and smiled at the wrinkle of concentration that knit his brows together while he worked.

Much later, as the winter sun began its descent, Sherlock dumped his equipment into a scientific heap on the kitchen island and wandered back into the sitting room, absently sucking on a singed finger. He collapsed into his chair and picked up his violin, his blue-green eyes still distant and unfocused as he tucked it under his chin and played a handful of notes.

Molly watched him with fascination. It was extraordinary how good he was at tuning out the world around him when he was in the middle of a project. She imagined she could have danced naked directly through his field of vision and he wouldn't have noticed. She was briefly tempted to find out, but then snorted to herself and went back to her reading.

It was Sherlock who finally broke the silence.

She had managed to tune out the erratic notes that he wrung from the violin so well that she didn't even notice that he had put it away until he was kneeling on the floor next to her. He plucked impatiently at her pants leg, encouraging her to shift. She cocked an eyebrow in his direction, but obligingly turned around until she was facing him. He insinuated himself into the vee between her thighs, then leaned forward and wrapped his arms loosely around her hips, resting his cheek against her stomach.

"The groomsman didn't do it," he said conversationally.

"Oh?" She set the journal aside and slid her hands into the hair that curled around his collar, massaging gently.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, rubbing his face against her abdomen in a manner that was astonishingly reminiscent of Toby's reaction when she petted  _him_.

"No. The acid worked far too quickly. Complete cellular breakdown occurred in less then eleven minutes. His alibi puts him more than twenty minutes away when the animal was dosed."

"So it was the - "

"Stable manager, obviously," he said, and let out a sigh. He tilted his head to give her better access to his neck. "I'll phone Lestrade in the morning."

"Oh right," Molly said, as she belatedly caught up. "The entrails in the crisper drawer?"

He nodded.

"Oh good, now maybe Mrs. Hudson can clean out your fridge."

"Maybe," he acknowledged, his voice muffled by the front of her shirt. "But she's probably going to object to the bag of kidneys and then we'll be right back where we started."

Molly chuckled, and they lapsed into silence. She continued to comb her fingers through his hair. She loved the way the curls sprang back under her fingers.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and his face was relaxed into a peaceful mask. He looked so young. She smiled and smoothed his hair back, letting her fingers trail down his neck and dip beneath the collar of his shirt. Her fingertips brushed across the raised edge of one of the scars on his upper back. He twitched and she pulled her hand away.

"Sorry," she said with a grimace, but he merely shrugged a shoulder

"It doesn't hurt, if that's what worries you," he said. His voice was a low rumble. "It feels a bit odd is all."

"Take off your shirt," she said softly.

He flicked a surprised glance up at her, but acquiesced, sitting up long enough to take off his dressing gown and pull his shirt over his head. Then he resumed his position, his pale shoulders curved over her lap, exposing the lean, muscular lines of his back.

Molly examined his fair skin, brushing her fingers lightly over the pink weals that had looked so ghastly when she had first treated them four months ago. They had healed nicely. There was no puckering around the perimeters or deep muscle tissue involvement. He would carry the scars with him for the rest of his life, but they shouldn't cause him any more pain - physically at least.

She wasn't sure how the sight of them affected him - the body was nothing more than transport as far as he was concerned. Maybe they didn't affect him at all. But every time she caught a glimpse of them, those permanent reminders of the dangers he had survived, she still felt a lurch of fear. When she thought about what might have happened if he'd been a few metres closer to the bomb when it went off - what she would have lost, what she never would have had - she felt terror that ran through her like an electric current. She was oddly thankful for those scars, or at least for what they represented. They were proof of his survival. He wasn't lying in a shallow grave somewhere in the sands of Ashgabat, never to return. He was here with her - warm and alive.

She leaned down and kissed the scar closest to his shoulder, pressing her lips gently against the raised knot of pink skin.

He hummed lightly in the back of his throat with a sound like the distant purr of an outboard motor, but he remained still, his eyes closed and his head contentedly pillowed in her lap. She smiled and then leaned back, running her fingers through his hair and down the line of his neck.

They sat in calm silence for a long while, Molly gently stroking his hair and just barely resisting the urge to scratch him behind the ears the way she did for Toby. Sherlock seemed content to stay as he was, shirtless and curled around her like a question mark. He was breathing evenly, his long lashes dark against his cheeks.

"What was it like?" she asked softly.

She felt him shift under her hands, but he neither raised his head nor opened his eyes.

Aside from the night when he had first come back to London, they had never spoken about his time away. He had never brought it up and she had been reluctant to ask - afraid to dredge up memories that still inspired such awful dreams from time to time.

The silence lasted just long enough for her to convince herself that he was ignoring her or choosing not to answer, or that he had, in fact, fallen asleep.

"Empty," he said eventually. "It was…empty."

Molly wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn't that.

Sherlock's voice was gruff and matter-of-fact, but lines appeared between his brows and his lips turned down at the edges. His hands, which had been loosely cupping her hips, had tightened until she could feel his fingers digging into her.

This was difficult for him, she realized. She almost stopped him, almost changed the subject and redirected his attention to something else. She knew he would seize the opportunity eagerly and she would never have to hear about any of this, but she didn't do it. If he didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't, but he deserved the chance to lessen his burden with the telling of it. With a nearly physical effort, she forced herself to stay still and silent and kept brushing her fingers through his hair.

"I knew that once the network discovered that Moriarty was dead, they would have to regroup. And then they would begin to spread. Jim Moriarty's weakness for games and cleverness weren't going to factor in and slow business down anymore. They were a world-wide network of criminal experts in need of nothing more than a new talent agent to help them branch out and start committing unsolvable crimes in every corner of the globe. It's hard to pinpoint a suspect when the trigger can be pulled a thousand miles away from the victim, after all."

Molly swallowed hard. She had not feared Jim Moriarty; she had felt no qualms about him at all, in fact. She had invited him into her home _,_  had gone on dates with him, had chatted and joked with him and thought he was lovely. And then she had discovered that he was responsible for a consortium of organized criminals like the world had never known. She had been such a fool. Her hands trembled, and she stilled them with effort.

"I went directly to Cairo when I left London. There was too much of a possibility of my being recognized if I stayed in Europe, and I knew the exact location of the Egyptian faction, thanks to Mycroft's intelligence. I took them down easily." There was a note of vicious satisfaction in Sherlock's voice now. "They had no reason to be wary, so I was able to flush them out into the light like so many cockroaches." The note of satisfaction slipped away. "They turned on each other. They tore themselves apart from the inside. All I had to do was talk to them, and they destroyed themselves."

"You called it a mission," he said, and glanced up at her. His eyes were dark and hooded. "And you were right. But it was more even than that. It was all there was. It was like breathing - the thing that dictated my entire existence. From the moment I woke until I was forced to sleep - it was my central, all-encompassing focus. It had to be done, and I had to be the one to do it. But it was all there was, and it was empty. It felt…hollow."

Molly looked down at him, blinking back the sting of tears she knew he didn't want or need to see. It was over. It had changed him, and it had  _hurt_  him, but it was over. Her tears wouldn't change anything now.

"What else do you want to know?"

The question surprised her. It wasn't like him to offer himself up so easily. She considered telling him 'nothing', but as she looked down at the determined set of his jaw and felt the rough grip of his fingers digging into her hips, she knew that this was for him, not for her.

"Did you have help?" she asked finally, picking back up the gentle stroking of her fingers, comforting him and letting him relax the tense set of his shoulders once again. "Were you…alone - ly?"

Sherlock's eyes closed again. He seemed more comfortable this way. Perhaps he went to his mind palace to make it easier; perhaps he was only now opening doors to rooms he had shut and locked up tight while he was away.

He pressed his forehead against her thigh. "Yes," he said. "I had help."

"Oh." Molly felt a conflicting rush of relief mixed with unease. The idea that Sherlock had not been entirely alone - that there had been people on his side, assisting him along the way - it should have been comforting. But she sensed there was something more to it.

"It wasn't difficult to find people that hated James Moriarty and his cohorts," Sherlock said. "They hurt people, destroyed families and fortunes and left devastation in their wake. I made use of those assets - the victims or their families - the ones who wanted vengeance and were willing to do much to get it."

Molly winced, but Sherlock plowed ahead.

"There were dozens all told - Ali Gerges, Mazen Said and Yasmin Srour in Cairo, Mohammad Mahmod in Yemen, and the Reznik brothers in Prague. Aline Cloutier had already infiltrated the Spanish cell before I even arrived. It was her inside information that ultimately led to collapse of that faction. Awurama was my contact in Lilongwe. That was rather like having Mrs. Hudson along for the ride, actually. Tiresome, but she made an extraordinary Ujeni Ndiwo - "

Sherlock carried on talking, but Molly had lost the thread of his speech. A sense of disquiet settled over her like a sodden cloak.

That name. It had to be a coincidence, didn't it?

She closed her eyes and frowned, searching her memory for the details - for something that would help her shake this sudden uneasiness. It was just a name, nothing more - even if it seemed unusual to her. It probably wasn't unusual at all in Malawi.

"Molly?"

She had stopped stroking Sherlock's hair, she realized, though her fingers were still tangled in his curls. She could practically feel the shift as his attention focused sharply in on her.

He sat up. "What is it?" he asked.

There it was in her memory - black print on a white page. That name. But a coincidence, surely. Sherlock was always the first to insist that there was no such thing as coincidence. But how could it be anything else?

"Her name," she managed to say finally, though her throat felt suddenly dry. "What was her last name?"

"Who? Molly, what are you - "

"Awurama," she said, forcing herself to keep her tone even. "What was her last name? What did she look like, Sherlock? How old was she?"

He narrowed his eyes at her and frowned, but answered immediately, "Ngosa. Her name was Awurama Ngosa. She was in her mid-fifties. Why? What does that name mean to you, Molly?"

She let out a shuddering breath of disbelief. "A fifty-three year old woman named Awurama Ngosa from Lilongwe, Malawi died six weeks ago in London. I did the autopsy. She's dead, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens! Or develops or, you know, actually *exists*.
> 
> Thanks to each and every one of you lovely readers for stopping by and reading. I appreciate so much that y'all take a little bit of time out of your day to keep up with my little corner of the universe.
> 
> Oodles of love and heaps of appreciation to my wonderful, lovely and tolerant betas, Katie F and allofmyheart. *huggles to you both*


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"Dead?" Sherlock blinked at Molly and shook his head. "No. No, that's not possible. It has to be someone else. Awurama was still in Lilongwe when I left there over a year ago. Why on earth would she be in London?"

"I don't know." Molly bit her bottom lip. "It could be someone else. I'm sure it is someone else. It's just - well, it's the same name is all. I mean - I'm sure it's a common name there. Maybe every third person's name is Awurama in Lilongwe. It's just unusual here - in London, I mean. But it's probably - probably a coincidence…right?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy, Molly," he said absently. He was looking at her, but she could tell he wasn't seeing anything in front of him right now. His mind had turned inward, thoughts racing around in that brain of his, searching for an explanation, a meaning to explain the facts.

"How did she…die?" he asked after a moment. An almost imperceptible facial twitch belied his otherwise impassive expression.

"She was in a car crash," Molly said. "Or rather she was sort of caught up in one. Wrong place, wrong time. The driver was drunk, went up an embankment, and the…um, Awurama was found under the, uh, wreckage." Molly grimaced. "She was - well, she was pretty badly torn up, I'm afraid."

"Then how do you know it was her?" Sherlock demanded. "Don't tell me those idiots on the force identified her by her passport."

"No." Molly shook her head. "In fact, we didn't know who she was for along time. It was pure chance that she was identified at all. We sent the records off to Interpol and got a hit. She - she had an arrest record in Malawi."

"Document forgery," he said. It wasn't a question.

Molly could see the hope in his eyes. He wanted her to shake her head no - to confirm that this was some other woman, someone with no connection to him whatsoever.

She chewed her lip, and gave him a jerky nod. "Yeah, it was passport fraud. She - uh, did a few years in prison for it."

All of the strength went out of Sherlock and he sat down heavily on the floor, acceptance etched into the lines on his face. He wouldn't attempt to deny such overwhelming evidence, not even to himself - especially not to himself.

"That was how I met her," he said, his shoulders stooped. "I was in need of a new passport, and she came highly recommended within the underground community." His smile was wistful. "She'd only been out a few months when I came across her, but she was already back in business. She said she'd never been so good at forgery as when she got out of prison."

"Why would she have been in England?" Molly asked. She swallowed the hurt she felt for the man at her feet. He would appreciate reason far more than sympathetic platitudes. It went against her nature not to reach out and comfort him, but he had no need for it, nor would he appreciate it.

"I don't know," he said. He reached for his shirt and pulled it back on over his head, emerging with a thoughtful frown. "I don't like not knowing."

"Could she have been looking for you?"

Sherlock shook his head. He was on his feet and pacing now. "No. I shouldn't think so. I took pains to ensure that no one could connect me to the name Sherlock Holmes, nor link me back to London. Awurama believed that I was Joseph Bell of Scotland - as did all of the connections I made while I was away. It doesn't make sense!" he added, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "She wasn't exactly the type to take a holiday - " He broke off and whirled back to Molly. "You said she was identified by Interpol, why? Was she carrying any documentation on her? Did she have an entry visa?"

It was Molly's turn to shake her head. "No, no identification on the - on her. Interpol got a hit on her fingerprints, which they verified with Malawian law enforcement, but even then, the police couldn't find a travel record - no plane tickets, no visa, no nothing. There was nothing to suggest why she was here or how she got here - she just…appeared."

"Dead," Sherlock said, and Molly blinked at him. "She just appeared dead. Correct? There was no record of Awurama Ngosa arriving in the UK before her body was found underneath a crashed car - nothing to place her at the scene or in the country at all, no eye-witnesses, no traveling companions, nothing at all - until she was found dead."

"I - I guess that's right," Molly replied. She wrinkled her nose in concentration as she tried to recall the details of that particular case.

There hadn't been much to go on, nor had it particularly caught her attention at the time. It hadn't seemed like an especially intriguing assignment when the body first came in. Car crash fatalities were an unfortunate, but regular, fact of life for a pathologist in a city like London.

Some of the bodies that passed through her morgue were never identified. After thirty days, those that weren't being held as evidence were donated to local hospitals for research or teaching purposes, or else they were cremated. Fingerprint and DNA samples were logged for reference purposes, but otherwise those unfortunate people left no footprint on the world they left behind.

Molly didn't romanticize death. It was nothing but the cessation of a self-sustaining, complex chemical reaction. And she certainly understood the need to have such resources available for education and research. Even so, she was always gratified when the next of kin were located and able to lay their loved one to rest personally. It gave her a sense of closure to add a name to the file before the case was closed. No one should simply disappear from the world without there being some record of their passing.

The surfeit of unidentifiable bodies that had passed through the system in the past few months bothered her. For every nameless person that came into her morgue, there was a family left with unanswered questions. There were wives and husbands and children and parents living under a shroud of uncertainty. Someone, somewhere had loved each and every one of them; they had been important to someone.

Awurama Ngosa, no doubt, had family back in Malawi who were devastated by her death, but at least they knew now. At least they would not be left watching the door, always wondering if she might walk back in. And the boy -

The boy.

There had been a boy, Molly recalled with a sudden jolt that made her head snap up.

Two sets of records had come back from Interpol that day. She had forgotten. Awurama Ngosa and the boy - the seventeen-year-old boy from Turkmenistan.

She remembered him, though she had not been the one to do the post-mortem. He'd been brought into the morgue, his body broken and disfigured from his fall from the Hornsey Lane Bridge. Howard had done the work up and identified the cause of death as severe blunt force trauma, consistent with suicide by bridge. Another unremarkable, if tragic, death that she had thought nothing of at the time.

Molly's felt her heart rate pick up speed as a terrible idea occurred to her. No, not just an idea - a certainty that spread through her veins like ice water.

Both victims were foreign nationals, found dead within a few weeks of each other, neither one with a record of how they had gotten into the country in the first place. What could a middle-aged woman and a teenaged boy from entirely different parts of the world, who had died under entirely different sets of circumstances, have in common?

Sherlock's face appeared in her field of vision. "Molly? Are you alright?" His voice sounded far away. "You've gone white as a sheet."

His warm hands cupped her face and tilted her chin gently up to look at him. He was frowning down at her, his brow creased in concern. Jagged pieces like broken glass were falling into place. She reared back, pulling away from him as if that might mitigate the pain she was about to inflict. He looked startled but let her go, his hands dropping slowly to his sides.

"Th-there was another death, Sherlock," she said. "A suicide just a few weeks before Awurama." Her pulse raced and she swallowed hard. "It was a boy - a seventeen-year-old Turkmen boy from Ashgabat."

She saw the realization bleed into his expression. Her mouth formed the name, but it was Sherlock who spoke it out loud.

"Mihail."

She nodded, a single downward jerk of her head.

He stood so still, Molly would have thought him entirely unaffected if it weren't for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His face was an expressionless mask, but his eyes were shining and overly bright. She could almost see the thoughts that flickered behind them like flashes of lightening.

He turned away from her abruptly and braced his hands on the edge of his desk, his head bowed between his shoulders.

Molly ached to go to him, to put her arms around him and give him some comfort - or maybe just to find some comfort for herself. She wasn't entirely sure. She resisted the desire, however, and sat with her fingers clenched, wondering what to say - what to do.

He seemed calm, and she couldn't help but wonder at the depth of his control.

And then he let out a hoarse cry, and in one broad gesture, swept everything off of the desk with an almighty crash.

Books and papers went flying. Sherlock's mug shattered, spilling a river of lukewarm tea that began to saturate the scattered pages like a slowly-developing Rorschach test. Two erlenmeyer flasks hit the floor and popped like a pair of glass balloons, sanding the wooden floorboards with shards of splintered glass.

Molly sat frozen in shock as pages of sheet music drifted lazily through the air. Sherlock was leaning against the empty desk, still breathing heavily, but he seemed to have regained his composure

"They helped me," he said. "They helped me, and they died for it."

"You don't know that for sure," Molly ventured. Her voice felt loud in the heavy silence that followed the cacophony. "It could be - "

The look he gave her was so full of disgust that it made her feel cold. "A coincidence? Is that what you're suggesting this is, a coincidence?"

She swallowed. The distant sounds of Mrs. Hudson's worried voice carried up the stairs.

"I - I"m only suggesting that you - "

He cut her off with a gesture and reached unerringly for the accordion file that had been buried beneath a stack of research journals. It had a jagged split across the cover, but its contents had not spilled its contents when it fell. He ripped it open and pulled out the familiar stack of well-thumbed folders. "You think this is a coincidence?" he asked. He tossed them all at her feet with a flick of his wrist.

Case reports, witness statements, autopsy findings and crime-scene photos spilled out across the floor in front of her. It was every scrap of information that Sherlock had on the thirteen unidentified bodies that had come into the morgue over the past three and half months - the case that may or may not be a case.

Without the Interpol records that had identified Awurama Ngosa and Mihail Puntjar, there would have been two more folders lying there on the floor, Molly realized. She looked down at the them and felt a renewed sense of horror. Of course.

Oh no.

"Thirteen unidentified bodies," he said. He flung the tattered remains of the accordion file behind him and nearly hit Mrs. Hudson as she appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale.

"Oh, Sherlock!" his landlady cried as she surveyed the damage. "What's - "

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" he bellowed.

"Surely not all of them," Molly said weakly. She couldn't take her eyes off of the scattered case files.

"Oh, certainly not," Sherlock said. He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of the sofa, where only a few moments before he had been resting peacefully in her lap, and he began pawing through the folders.

"This one," he said, extracting a file and holding it up to show her, "has nothing to do with me. Do you know how I know?"

Silently, Molly shook her head.

He dumped the file on the floor and fished out one of the autopsy photos. "Because the face is intact." He thrust the glossy image at her long enough for her to make out the image of a grey-faced man laid out on the slab before he flung it away.

With manic, jerky motions, Sherlock dug through the rest of the files. "Stupid, foolish, blind idiot," he muttered to himself.

Molly met Mrs. Hudson's frightened gaze across the room and realized that it mirrored her own.

"Should I call John?" The older woman ventured, twisting her necklace nervously around her fingers.

"Whatever for?" Sherlock snapped without looking up. "What could he possibly do?" He continued to sift through the pages.

Molly looked over his head and gave the woman a nod. Whatever may come, Sherlock would face it better with John at his side.

Mrs. Hudson looked relieved to have something to do. "I'll just - I'll just go," she said and made her escape back down the stairs.

"Eight."

Molly's eyes flicked back down to Sherlock. He was kneeling in the midst of his shattered sitting room, his face pale, his hair a wild tangle. There was a liberal smear of blood across his forehead, which startled her until she realized that it was his hand that was bleeding. He must have brushed his hair out of his face. His expression had settled back into its usual neutrality, but there was still an unfamiliar wildness in his eyes.

"Eight of thirteen," he said. "Ten including Awurama and Mihail."

"I need to look at your hand, Sherlock," she said. She sounded calm, though her heart was beating wildly her chest. "You're bleeding."

"To hell with my hand," he said, then went on talking to himself as if she hadn't spoken. "Two definite, eight likely, but how many others that haven't yet surfaced? And how - how?" He sat back and began paging through the folders again.

Molly recognized them all by this point. He had gone through each file, one at a time, over and over in the past few months, trying to piece together a pattern - trying to find something that tied them all together.

And now it seemed he had.

It was him.

He went straight to the photos. Each one was examined at length, every angle thoroughly scrutinized and then set aside in a careful stack before he went on to the next one.

He made no objection, nor, in fact, acknowledged her at all, when she picked her way carefully into the kitchen and came back with the first aid kit to dress the wound on his hand.

There were two pieces of glass embedded in the heel of his right hand. The small one came out with a minimum of bleeding, but the other was larger, jagged and deep. She glanced up at the look of absorption on his face, and then gently pried the piece loose with a pair of tweezers. He didn't so much as flinch.

The wound wasn't serious, though she would have urged him to let her stitch it if she thought she stood half a chance of him agreeing to it. It was bleeding heavily, however, and filled quickly with blood when she took pressure off of it. By the time she managed to staunch the flow well enough to apply a bandage, the thick, coppery scent had permeated the room.

Molly was hardly affected by the sight or smell of blood, of course, but it seemed wrong here. The warm familiarity of the Baker Street flat suddenly felt cold and foreign. It was as if danger had breezed into the room on a gust of wind, bringing darkness and doubt into the one place that had always felt like a sanctuary before.

She packed away the first aid kit with fastidious care. It helped to have something tangible to focus on when her mind was in such an uproar. She glanced at Sherlock, but his head was down, his attention firmly on the files in front of him.

For a moment she allowed herself to wish that he was the kind of man that she could comfort and in turn take comfort in. She pushed the thought away, but it left her feeling hollow.

With a sudden flurry of movement, Sherlock shot to his feet and started collecting the scattered papers and photos. He shoved everything back into the file, pausing momentarily to examine the bandage on his hand as if he wasn't sure how it had gotten there. Then he grabbed his coat and headed towards the door.

"Text John and tell him to meet me in the morgue," he called over his shoulder.

And then he was gone, and she was alone.

She took a deep breath through the heaviness in her chest and let it out slowly.

Sometimes, she was envious of Sherlock's ability to disassociate himself from emotional entanglements. Right now, all she felt was numbness, but she knew that would fade quickly. And when it did, she would be left with a wearisome ache over her heart. She would hurt for him because he would not allow himself to hurt. What would the point be? Emotion would be pushed aside and replaced with action. If it turned out that more of these unidentified bodies were the people who had helped Sherlock during his absence, he would not weep over their deaths nor waste another moment wallowing in sentiment.

That wasn't to say that he wouldn't mourn them. But the nature of his mourning would look more like the wrath of a vengeful god bringing hellfire down on whoever was responsible. She could almost find it in herself to feel some sympathy for them - whoever they were - but then her gaze fell on one of the post-mortem photos, and she could not find it in herself to wish them anything but a swift justice - in whatever form Sherlock might choose for them.

She tapped out a quick text to John, relaying Sherlock's message. Her fingers felt stiff and clumsy, and she was distantly aware that she was experiencing a mild form of shock.

With the message sent, she then turned to the mess in the middle of the sitting room, and tried to decide where to begin. It never even occurred to her to leave it for Mrs. Hudson to tidy up. Sherlock's landlady put up with quite enough already. But more than that, Molly simply functioned better when she had a purpose. She needed something to focus her attention on so that she would not dwell on the case, or Sherlock's behaviour, or indeed any other thing over which she had no control.

Forty-five minutes later, after every sliver of glass had been swept away, books and papers gathered and neatly stacked, and the sitting room was returned to its usual state of organized chaos, Molly's mobile rang. A quick glance at the display showed that it was John. She answered on the second ring.

"Hullo, John," she said as she fished a couple of rogue pages of sheet music from beneath the sofa. "Everything alright?"

"Define 'alright'," John said, sounded beleaguered. In the background she could hear the unmistakable sound of raised voices.

Molly grimaced in understanding. "Howard?"

"Ah, yes, in fact, it is. Sherlock is demanding to see bodies and Howard insists that he does not, and I quote, 'exist to do the bidding of Sherlock Holmes'. Um, also, he wants to know why you aren't here - Sherlock does, I mean, not Howard."

"That's because Howard knows that the reason I'm not there is because it's my day off," she said with a sigh. "And if Sherlock stops and thinks about it, he'll probably remember that I was still in the flat when he left."

"Of course you were," John said with a sigh that matched her own. "Listen, I don't suppose you know what's going on, do you? Sherlock's not making a lot of sense, even for him. He said something about the unsolved murders and Turkmenistan and somebody named Michael?"

Molly hesitated. "How much has he told you about his time away?"

"Not a lot," John admitted. "I don't think he likes to talk about it."

"You're right about that," she said. She chewed her bottom lip and then nodded to herself, already reaching for her coat. "Tell Sherlock I'm on my way." She started toward the door and then added, "Actually, tell Howard too. Tell him not to throw Sherlock out until I get there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plotty plot plot. And more evidence that Sherlock feels more than he is willing to let on.
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience for my slower posting schedule. I'm still writing when time permits. It's just that time is being a lot stingier these days! All the reviews and PMs and follows are encouraging and much appreciated!
> 
> Katie F and allofmyheart continue to be ever so patient and more tolerant than any two people should have to be. Y'all complete me.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

The names were a litany, and reciting them the closest thing to a religious practice as Sherlock had ever come.

Mihail Puntjar, Awurama Ngosa, Tom and Léa Claes, Ada Krupke, Aakhib Tahmazov, Mazen Said, Yasmin Srour, Mohammad Mahmoud - nine names.

Nine names that were heavy with odd syllables and difficult edges, but they rolled off his tongue as if they were as familiar as his own. In many ways, they were. He had spoken them often during the two years when Sherlock Holmes was a dead man and only Joseph Bell was left to walk the earth. He would not have called them friends, but he gladly claimed them as allies, as comrades-in-arms. These were the soldiers of the quiet army, the frontline in an invisible war against an amorphous enemy.

But they had  _won,_  dammit! It was a grotesque parody of a victory march that was lined with the bodies of the victorious.

Anger coursed through him in a hot wave, and Sherlock clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he fought to keep his composure. He made no other outward sign, but he felt Molly's sharp eyes flick over him in concern. His anger shifted to irritation, and he scowled without meeting her gaze.

Her constant vigilance was grating on his nerves.

They were in the lab at Barts. Right where he had been morning, noon and night for the past four days. His eyes burned with fatigue, but he could not bring himself to sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but he would not risk distracting himself from his work to eat. For the first two days, Molly had tried to coax bits of food into him until he had finally shouted at her to leave him alone. She hadn't, but she had retreated to the other side of the lab, and she hadn't brought in anymore food, either.

On some level, he knew that he was being unfair to her, but it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered right now but this case. Nothing else could be important until this case was closed -  _nothing._  If Molly couldn't understand that, then she had no business being with him in the first place.

People were dead - no, not just dead -  _dying._ He had pieced together the identities of the other victims by tracking down his contacts in more than a dozen countries. Those that he was able to reach, he warned. But there were some that he hadn't been able to find - sone who had been listed as missing by family and friends. He wondered which one of them would be the next disfigured body that was brought into the morgue. There was no reason to assume that these murders - because, they were most certainly murders, no matter how much like accidents or suicides they may have appeared to be - were at an end. His network was being taken apart, one by one, and he had no idea how or why or by whom.

This was a mystery that spoke to him in a way that not even James Moriarty's had. That had been a game between two equally matched opponents, both hell-bent on being the downfall of the other. This was pure, surgical and  _brutal_  retaliation. But for what or for whom? What action of his had brought this vendetta down upon his allies? He was left to conjecture and speculation. The absence of concrete facts - of any relevant information - was infuriating.

He had spent the past four days poring through trace evidence, sending out queries to other jurisdictions and shouting down the phone at the clerks at Immigration Services until John had physically pried the phone out of his hand and refused to let him have it back. Sherlock and seen the empathetic look that John shared with Molly when he made off with the phone, but since John went ahead and kept making the calls for him - with admittedly more grace and aplomb than Sherlock was capable of at present - he said nothing about it.

It was late afternoon. The hospital hummed with the distant activity that marked the shift change on the upper floors. Sherlock could practically hear Molly psyching herself up for another attempt at either feeding him or dragging him home. He hunched his shoulders over the microscope as she tentatively crossed back over to his side of the lab, but before she had a chance to say anything, the door swung in and Lestrade entered, his good-natured face hardened with bad news.

"I think we've got another one, Sherlock," he said. He stepped aside and held the door open. "You'd better come and take a look."

He heard Molly's indrawn breath and closed his eyes.

It was a man. That was all that he could tell for sure by looking at the mutilated body on the slab in the cold, blue glare of the morgue.

The scent of blood and bile and violent death filled the air. Lestrade and Sargent du Crieff wore matching pinched expressions. The younger man pressed his sleeve across his nose and looked pained.

Silently, Molly pulled on her gloves and came to stand next to the body. "The official autopsy can't be completed until tomorrow," she said. "But I can give you a quick once-over." She glanced between Sherlock and Lestrade. They both nodded. "Alright then," she said, and squared her narrow shoulders.

With the same gentle reverence she always showed when performing her job, Molly began to go over the body.

du Crieff made a valiant go of it, but when the head rocked back away from the body, he made a guttural, choked sound and bolted for the door.

"Hard to blame him, poor sod," Lestrade said softly.

"None of us do," Molly murmured without looking up from her work. She went on with her examination for another ten minutes and then looked back up at the men.

"The victim is male. I'd put his age somewhere in the mid-fifties based on tooth wear in the - uh, remaining teeth. I could probably give you a slightly better estimate once I examine the cranial sutures. I doubt pubic symphysis will give us anything, given the level of trauma to the pubic bones." She took a fortifying breath and swallowed hard. "Cause of death appears consistent with blunt force injury sustained in a train collision. There are multiple organ ruptures and, um, cranial separation." Molly winced and looked up again.

"Anything else you can tell us?" Lestrade asked hopefully. "I know you don't have much to go on - "

Molly nodded. "I might be able to tell you more tomorrow, but for now the only thing I can add is that the victim appears to be of Eastern-European descent." She glanced at Sherlock. "I'm sorry I can't give you more."

Sherlock had remained silent throughout. His face was pale and drawn, and expressionless. "Can you examine his left buttock?" he asked without inflection.

Molly didn't bother trying to hide her surprise, but to her credit, she said nothing. She nodded to Sanjay who had been standing near the door. He came forward to help her. Even the pathology technologist was ashen faced as he helped Molly roll the slack corpse onto its side so that she could push the shredded clothing aside.

There was little skin left that had not been abraded or torn in the collision, but there was evidence of a previously existing scar - a large, vaguely diamond-shaped indentation.

Sherlock nodded. Molly and Sanjay slowly rotated the body back onto its back and Sanjay retreated to his post by the door.

"It seems a bit large for a knife," Molly said looking down at the scar with a frown.

"Commercial fishing hook," Sherlock said. "Dimitry Andreyev. He was an active member of Moriarty's network until he fell foul of it himself four years ago. They murdered his wife and three of his children. He identified the remaining members of the Russian cell in Volgograd."

"And what happened to them?" Lestrade asked casually.

"They're dead." Sherlock met Lestrade's gaze without blinking. "Dimitry had a debt to settle, Detective Inspector," he said coolly. "I didn't have the opportunity to do anything about them myself."

Lestrade's face was stony, but he simply gave a curt nod and looked away.

Sherlock turned to leave, intent on returning to the lab, but the past several months with Molly had spoiled him for regular sleep and food. Now the lack of it was making itself known. He swayed and reached for the doorway, but John and Lestrade were there to catch him before he stumbled.

"Alright, that's about enough," Lestrade said. "Go home, Sherlock. Get some sleep, and for God's sake eat something. Sargent du Crieff and I will work on tracking Andreyev's movements. We'll see if we can figure out how he got here."

Sherlock wrenched away from their grasp. "I do not need to  _rest_ , Lestrade. I am - "

"I'm not  _asking_  you, Sherlock," the Lestrade said, pointing a finger at him. "You look dead. Go home and rest or you're off this case."

"You wouldn't  _dare,_ _"_  Sherlock sneered.

"Go ahead and try me," he challenged. "You either work smarter than this, or you don't work at all. You're no good to me dead." Lestrade looked at Molly. "Can you take him home, see that he follows orders?"

Molly was pale and wide-eyed, but she nodded without meeting Sherlock's eyes. He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and turned once again toward the door, jerking past John, who stepped silently out of his way. Sherlock didn't bother to turn and look, but he knew Molly was behind him.

He was fuming at being so summarily dismissed and he didn't speak as Molly accompanied him down the pavement to hail a cab. He stood silently, with his back straight, staring forward.

He had no intention whatsoever of going home and going to bed. That was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. People were dying  _His_  people were dying and he wasn't going to rest until he not only knew who was responsible, but had seen to it that they regretted the day they'd taken their first breath.

"I think he means it, Sherlock," Molly said so quietly he barely heard her over the road noise. "You look all in. If you don't get some sleep - "

Sherlock's lip curled up in a snarl. "So I'm supposed to go and take a nap, am I? While someone is traipsing around the globe, systematically murdering my people, I'm supposed to make sure I get a good night's sleep?"

He glowered down at her, feeling nothing but disdain for her concern.

And then he realized she was shivering.

He hadn't waited for her - he had strode straight out of the hospital immediately after Lestrade's ultimatum. She had scrambled to get her things before he left her behind altogether, but she had forgotten to grab her coat.

Some of the fury seeped out of him, and he realized suddenly how tired he really was. With a deep sigh, he shucked his heavy coat off and wrapped it gently around Molly's trembling shoulders. She looked up at him in surprise. He put his arms around her, unwilling to see himself in her eyes just now.

He bent his head and pressed his lips to her hair, then murmured softly into her hair. "I am sorry, Molly."

He didn't hear her reply as a cab rolled to a stop in front of them.

The ride back to Baker Street was silent. He actually dozed off against the seat, then came to with a start when Molly touched his shoulder to wake him.

"We're here," she said softly. He nodded and slid out of the cab, following her blearily up the stairs.

She went directly into the kitchen. He knew he should go to his room, if for no other reason than to escape from Molly's solicitude, but the distance from the door to his bed seemed suddenly too far to attempt, and he dropped instead onto the sofa.

His body was exhausted, but his mind would not rest. Names and places and dates scrolled like an endless ticker of seemingly unrelated information. He sorted and reviewed and examined and tore down and reassembled the available data, desperately seeking some correlation, some new link that would help him work back to who could be responsible for this kind of precision, targeted attack. Where was the connection?

Mihail had saved his life in Ashgabat; jolly Awurama had sheltered and cheerfully fed him ndiwo during his time in Lilongwe; Tom and Léa Claes were a married couple from Brussles with four grown children in addition to the eldest son who had been murdered by one of Moriarty's divisions. They had given him a place to stay and the money he had needed to buy necessary information. Ada Krupke in Hamburg; Sakhib Tahmazov in Sumqayit had introduced him to Udjal and Takhir - he could not have taken down the Azerbaijan contingent without them; Mazen Said and Yasmin Srour in Cairo; Mohammad Mahmoud in Yemen - how many more would die before he stopped this?

"Sherlock." Molly's gentle voice pulled him back to the present. He opened his eyes.

She was kneeling beside the sofa, a mug of tea and a plate with several slices of plain buttered toast sat next to her on the coffee table. The look of timid uncertainty she had worn at the hospital was gone. Her elfin features were resolute. He could see that he wasn't going to get any peace from her until she was satisfied that he was taking better care of himself.

He sighed and forced himself to sit up, but she didn't stop glaring at him until he had reached out and snagged a piece of toast. He took a bite and raised an eyebrow at her.

She gave him a quick smile and stood, patting him briskly on the knee before she returned to the kitchen. He heard her bustling about, presumably cleaning up whatever mess she had made while hastily cobbling together his tea before he had a chance to fall asleep without having eaten. By the time she came back into the sitting room, he had obediently cleaned the plate of all but crumbs and even drained his tea. Grudgingly, he had to admit, he felt somewhat better.

"Now, up with you," Molly said, reaching for his hand. "First you shower, and then you sleep."

He let her tow him into his bedroom, and even let her help him strip off his suit jacket. When she moved away to hang it up in his closet, he escaped into the bathroom and locked the door behind himself before she took it into her head to help him undress entirely.

When he stepped out of the steam-filled room twenty minutes later, his teeth were clean, his body was scrubbed pink and his hair hung in damp curls.

Molly was just smoothing down the sheets when he came back into his room. She flashed a quick smile at him, and gestured to the bed.

"Alright, in with you," she said. "I've just changed your sheets. I'll start a load of washing, and then let myself out." She gathered up the pile of linens from the floor and started out of the room. But before she could get past him, he reached for her.

His fingers went around the fragile bones of her wrist, his thumb pressing gently against the radial artery as her blood thrummed beneath his touch.

"Don't go," he said, without looking up from her slender, capable fingers. "I'd like for you to stay." He felt her pulse rate quicken and looked up at her from beneath his lashes. "Please."

She blinked down at him and chewed her lower lip. He knew she was trying to decide what she was in for if she stayed. He had been regularly awful to her for the past few days - short-tempered, rude and dismissive - as if their past few months together had never happened.

His chest ached. God, but she deserved so much better. "If you'd rather go - "

"No!" She said quickly, her eyes going wide. "No, I'll stay - if you want me to."

He nodded, feeling unspeakably weary all of a sudden.

"I'm still going to start the wash," she said. "Go ahead and lie down. I'll come back and stay with you until you fall asleep."

"Don't go," he repeated, still holding firmly to her wrist.

"I'm not going anywhere, you silly sod," she said with an indulgent smile. "I'll be right back. And I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Mollified, he loosened his grip so that she could slip free. He watched her leave the room. She paused and threw an affectionate glance over her shoulder and then she was gone.

Exchanging his towel for clothing seemed like far too much unnecessary effort, so he simply let the wet towel drop to the floor and climbed between the cool, clean sheets Molly had put on the bed for him.

As promised, she was back within a few minutes. He heard her cluck in disapproval at the damp towel on the floor, and followed her mentally as she padded out of the room to hang it over the bar in the bathroom.

"Do you want me to lie down with you?" she asked softly when she returned.

He nodded without bothering to open his eyes, and lifted the sheets. She slipped in next to him. She had stripped down to a shirt and knickers, and her slight heat was welcome against his cooled skin.

His body ached and his eyes burned with fatigue. He did not want to sleep, but he was reaching his limit. He hated to admit it, and would deny it hotly, but his friends were right - if he was going to have any chance of solving this case, he was going to have to get some rest. He was going to have to  _sleep_. And the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he would be able to get back to the work.

Willing as he was, however, his mind was not so obliging.

He was a hard drive with no off switch. He couldn't  _not_  work through the cases again and again. The names and dates and times and places, the factions he had infiltrated, the people who had helped him - who was left? How many more would die? Ajay Khatri, his contact in New Delhi? Max and Emma Bos in Amsterdam? Would the Norbu family, who had sheltered him in their home during his time in Nepal, be next? Would Aline Cloutier? Who else had brought hell down upon themselves by aiding him?

"I can hear you thinking from all the way over here."

He opened his eyes. Molly was watching him, her cheek pillowed on her hands.

"Can't sleep?" she asked with a gentle smile.

He shook his head. "I'm trying."

"I know." She reached out and brushed a lock of hair off of his forehead. And then her lips curled up into a slow smile. "I have an idea." She pushed herself up onto her knees and swept her hair off to one side. Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck.

"Molly - " he began, reaching up to stop her.

"Hush, Sherlock," she admonished and brushed his hands away. "I know you're tired. Just lie back." Her voice was soft, as were her hands when she touched him. She moved down his body and knelt between his legs. Her fingertips trailed gently across his chest and down the slope of his abs to the sensitive skin at the top of his thighs. He felt the warm silk of her hair spill across his hip, and he sucked in a breath just as her lips closed over him.

"God!" he gasped, and bucked his hips, thrusting instinctively upward.

She pressed down on his thighs, her slim hands pinning him down to the mattress as effectively as if she had tied him there.

He threw his head back and groaned. Exhaustion had stripped him of all but his most base instincts. He was a man undone. There was nothing but the heat and gentle suction of her lips and the wet slide of her tongue.

For a little while, he forgot himself. It was a blessed respite from the unending compulsion, from the obsession that was his driving force. Supplanting need of the mind with need of the body, Sherlock reveled in the flood of endorphins that rolled through him like a tidal wave. Pleasure coursed through him, building until it eclipsed even the bone-deep fatigue.

"Molly," he said, reaching for her. His fingers tangled in her hair. He wanted to pull her over him, but also to hold her there, to force himself deeper into her mouth. He wanted to move. He wanted to roll them over and push into her body - to  _take_ her. He was lost in the tumult of his own conflicting desires. He wanted her above him, below him, around him. He wanted to bury himself in her sex - his tongue, his fingers, his cock. He wanted everything and all at once. "Please," he groaned, fingers clenching spasmodically as she took him deeper. Her nails dug into the flesh of his buttocks - tiny pinpricks of pain - and he broke.

"Now, Molly.  _Now,_ " he demanded, forcing her head up. "I need - I need - "

"I know," she said.

She moved over him, slipping her knickers off and straddling his hips. There was an expression of such open tenderness on her face that it made his chest feel tight. He did not understand the complexity of human emotions, but he recognized the trappings easily enough. It was the idea of love that shone on her face - a realization that was both gratifying and infuriating all at once.

He wanted to pull her down and crush his lips to hers and he wanted to push her away. Love was a messy and irrelevant complication that he could not reciprocate. It was simply not a part of his make up. Could she keep loving someone who could not love her back? How long would this be enough for her?

Molly shifted, tilting forward to take him inside her body, and coherent thought fled.

It was a pleasure so sharp that it bordered on agony, and he shuddered as she moved. Gracefully, she rode him, setting a gentle rhythm of her own. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed as she rose and fell, rocking her hips and and taking him deeper into herself until he could no longer bear to be passive. He reached for her with a moan.

His fingers dug into the swell of her hips, holding her steady as he drove himself hard into her, desperate now to find his release. The force of his thrusts threw her off balance and she collapsed forward, pressed to his chest with her face buried in the curve of his shoulder.

"Come for me, Sherlock," she whispered, her breath warm on his skin.

He didn't need any further encouragement. He thrust into her once more and then froze, crushing her body against his chest as he pulsed inside her.

It was a little death, a moment of pure physicality that interrupted the ceaseless processing of his mind like the hard reset of a computer. The bliss of the orgasm itself was nothing next to the relief of not thinking.

Molly slipped away while he recovered. He was breathing heavily with the weight of sleep already beginning to bear down on him. He fought it for a moment longer, waiting until he felt her slide back into bed beside him. And then he pulled her into his arms, settling her into the curve of his body, and at last, he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sherlock, do *try* not to revert right back to your old habits. You were doing so well! And how about our Molly? Not so shy and mousey anymore, is she? Hehehe.
> 
> Sadly, I think my posting schedule is going to be slipping from 'every two weeks' to 'every time I have something to post'. My writing time has been seriously curtailed as of late, and I'm all out of pre-written chapters. On the plus side, we're in the home stretch - the end's not too far off now!
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me through all this, and for the wonderful comments and PMs. Y'all are what keeps me writing even when it's messy and frustrating and Sherlock is even less cooperative than usual:)
> 
> And thanks to Katie F and allofmyheart for not only being amazing betas, but also for exhibiting more patience and tolerance than should ever be required of any two individuals.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Worrying about Sherlock Holmes was a never-ending and emotionally exhausting proposition.

In some ways Molly missed the days when she only heard the gory details about Sherlock's cases through John's blog entries. She had still been horrified by the dangerous situations they had gotten themselves caught up in, but at least by the time she read about them, everything was over and done. They were  _safe._ Now, she was a spectator with front-row seats to each and every case, watching each all play out in real time. Worrying was becoming as automatic to her as breathing.

Sherlock and John had been out of the country for more than a week. An eyewitness had come forward who had seen Mohammad Mahmoud being dragged out of his home in the middle of the night. Local authorities were dispatched to get the man's sworn statement, but the departmental back and forth had taken far too long for Sherlock's liking. He couldn't stand pacing the halls at the Yard waiting for more information to trickle in, so he had booked a direct flight to Mahmoud's home town and dragged John to the airport without a backwards glance.

There had been a handful of tersely-worded texts from Sherlock while they were away, which was more than she had been anticipating, really. She imagined she had John's prodding to thank for even that minor courtesy. Sherlock just wouldn't see the point of keeping her up to date. It wasn't his way.

She tried not to dwell on the lack of information. She tried not to worry _._ She went about her regular routine as well as she was able. She slept at her own flat, curling up on her sofa each evening with Toby, a cup of tea and a book that she couldn't concentrate on. And she tried not to worry.

But there was an unknown danger out there, and it was personal. She couldn't help but envision a dark shadow that tracked Sherlock across the world even as he sought it out. He wouldn't appreciate her concern, of course. It wasn't useful. It wasn't helpful. It was sentimentality of the basest kind and it would annoy him more than anything else. And so she kept it to herself, but the wash of relief that she felt when she received his brief text Wednesday morning was entirely heartfelt:

_En route. Arr Baker ST 8PM._

She wasn't sure whether this was intended for strictly informational purposes or if she was expected to be there when they arrived, but she  _had_  missed him. She decided to interpret it as an invitation.

In the end, John and Sherlock blew through the door at a quarter to nine looking as if they'd been drug backwards through a prickly hedge. John collapsed immediately into a disheveled heap on the sofa. Sherlock stalked through the door muttering imprecations about their cabbie's personal life, crossed the room, seized Molly by her arms and snogged her thoroughly.

"Productive trip, was it?" she asked breathlessly once Sherlock had released her.

"No," he said, and dropped into his chair like a stone. He was scowling, had several days worth of beard growth and was in dire need of a haircut. He looked rather menacing.

John made an incoherent sound that Molly took as agreement.

"Oh," she made a face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sherlock said. "It wasn't your fault."

She blinked. "I know, I just meant - "

"Is there tea?" he interrupted, looking at her expectantly.

Molly pursed her lips and carefully considered several possible responses before she opened her mouth to reply. Then she noticed how red-rimmed and blood-shot his eyes were. He was dirty and had dark smudges underlining his eyes. Frustration and exhaustion were pouring off of him. She wondered when he had last slept or eaten.

"I'll put the kettle on," she said, and turned toward the kitchen before the ache in her chest showed on her face.

John was gone by the time she came back. Sherlock still sat in his chair with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. The long line of his neck was exposed, startlingly pale against the dark growth of beard that covered the underside of his chin.

He looked so tired she half hoped he had fallen asleep, but when she sat the tray down, his eyes snapped open at once.

"The Aden police force makes Scotland Yard look like a well-run, efficient machine," he said as he sat up to take the steaming mug from Molly's hands.

"They couldn't tell you anything?" She slid a plate onto his lap.

Sherlock looked down at the sandwiches and then flicked his gaze back up to her. "It's really no use telling you not to do this, is it?"

"None whatsoever," she agreed.

He rolled his eyes and sighed, but obligingly picked up half of one of the sandwiches. "They were able to tell me quite a lot, actually," he said. "Just absolutely nothing of any value to the investigation." He stopped and took a bite of his sandwich.

"Were you able to speak to the witness?"

Sherlock gave a humourless laugh. "Oh yes, I was able to speak with him. At length in fact. Quite easy to do since the idiots had him in custody."

"In custody?"

"They think he's at least the abductor if not the the murderer."

"But he came forward on his own, didn't he?" Molly asked with a puzzled frown.

"A classic sign of a guilty conscious, their chief assures me." Sherlock's lip curled up into a sneer. "The fool." He finished his sandwich in a couple of quick bites.

"You don't think he was involved?"

"Of course he wasn't involved." Sherlock gave her an aggrieved look and then seemed to notice that his plate was empty. He frowned down at it. "I don't suppose you made any of these for John, did you? He's gone to bed. He won't be needing them."

Molly smiled to herself and reached for the second plate of sandwiches. "Here." She traded him for the empty plate in his lap and stacked it on the tray while Sherlock tucked into his third sandwich. "So what did the witness tell you?"

"More than he meant to," Sherlock said around his bite of sandwich. "This has brown sauce on it."

"John likes brown sauce. What do you mean 'more than he meant to'?"

"He came forward with information about the abduction on his own, but when the police chief got it into his head to hold him on suspicion, he got panicky. He had nothing to do with the abduction, but it was clear that he was guilty of something. I looked into his report and did some checking into the time frame. Turns out that Mahmoud was in the habit of skivving off his shift in order to visit the local gambling dens. He witnessed the abduction on his way back to work, not on his way home, as he had originally reported. We'd been looking at chartered flights, private train cars - any way a person could be transported out of the country against their will. We know the deaths aren't occurring until they reach London. So how else could they be getting them here? The time difference opened up another possibility - a fully-loaded container ship bound for London sailed out of Aden two hours after the abduction. The ship arrived on December 5th and Mahmoud's body was found two days later. The timing fits." Sherlock took the last bite and made a face. "Maybe wait to put the brown sauce on it next time."

"Noted," Molly said, taking the second empty plate and stacking it on top of the first. "So you think they're transporting them across the ocean on container ships?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "Maybe some, maybe all, maybe none. It is merely a possibility in a long string of possibilities." He lapsed into frowning silence and drummed a rhythm on the arm of his chair

Molly stood to take the dishes back into the kitchen, but Sherlock stopped her with a hand hooked around her hip.

"So…um, how was your week?" he asked in a halting voice.

"My week?" Molly blinked down at him. This was very likely the first time in their nearly six-year acquaintance that he had asked her that question. "It was fine," she said slowly. "You know, the usual things."

Sherlock nodded. "Right. Well, that's…good."

"Yes, it was…good."

"And you were well - you felt…good?" His brow was furrowed in concentration. Coupled with his unkempt appearance, it made him look positively feral.

"Yes, I felt fine," she said. "Um, thank you." She regarded him with a puzzled frown, wondering what he was getting at. And then it dawned on her and she had to smother her grin - Sherlock was trying to make small talk.

With her lips pressed together, Molly set the plates back down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He glanced up at her in surprise, but allowed her to draw him against her so that his cheek rested against her stomach. "I missed you," she said to the top of his head.

He hesitated, but then gradually relaxed into her embrace and draped his arms loosely around her hips. "I missed you, too."

It was a strange sort of normal between them, Molly thought as she brushed her fingers through Sherlock's unruly hair. He smelled strongly of dust and sweat and unwashed male, but underneath it she could still make out his own pleasingly musky scent and the faint whiff of chemistry that no amount of showering seemed to completely eradicate. His breath warmed her belly through the fabric of her shirt, and she smiled down at him, oddly content.

She knew how peculiar they must seem to anyone outside of their own sphere. The pathologist and the consulting detective - morbid Molly and the freak. They each, in their own way, eschewed social expectations, and neither could be bothered to observe conventional niceties. They were never going to be popular at dinner parties, but then neither of them had ever cared for that sort of thing, anyway. They were unconventional people and they had an unconventional relationship. Molly wasn't sure that even  _she_ could put a label on it.

Normal was relative, of course, but normal for Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes was anyone else's chaos. They tread in the shadowy grey area that separated the world of the living from the reality of death. Danger and violence and bloodshed were not merely commonplace for them, but expected - anticipated, even. All in a days work.

Perhaps it was their chosen occupations that gave them such a unique perspective on life. They were aware that regardless of the way in which the body lost the final battle - be it violence or the simple degradation of organ function resulting from advanced age - the end result was the same for everyone. They romanticized neither living nor dying, and were acutely aware of the tenuous distinction between the two.

It could also be her job that was responsible for making her worry so keenly about Sherlock's safety while he was away. But, it was also responsible for making her more appreciative of the quiet moments like this. The steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the heat of his body, the steady flicker of his pulse in the hollow of his throat - proof of life, and reason enough for the profound gratitude that she felt just to be able to hold him. Maybe it wouldn't last forever, but for now, it was enough.

Molly looked down at Sherlock's lined and tired face and felt her chest tighten. He was taking far too much on himself and working far too hard on this case. She knew there was no sense in trying to slow him down. All she could do was feed him and encourage him to sleep from time to time. He needed to pour himself into the investigation. He needed to feel like he was doing all that could be done to find and stop this ghostly adversary. When it was over - when Sherlock Holmes had solved the case and saved the day once again - she was going to make him go away on holiday. Drugged and tied up in the boot if need be.

"Go on before you fall asleep sitting up," she said, nudging him with her hip. She laid a gentle kiss on top of his head and was pleased to see the corners of his lips curl up in a tired smile.

"Shower first," he insisted on the heels of a jaw-cracking yawn. He sat up, blinking hard, gearing up to push himself just a little bit farther. He rubbed his hand across the dark bristles on his chin and made a face. "I'll have this thing off too. It itches like a fiend."

"If you think you can manage without cutting your throat."

He gave her a quelling look, but instead of replying, merely unfolded himself from his chair and headed off in the direction of his bedroom.

Molly smiled after him. She wouldn't tell him how happy she was that he was home, or how much she'd missed him, or that she'd been worried about him, or that it had been hard for her to sleep without his warm presence taking up two-thirds of the bed next to her at night. He didn't need to know any of that. He wouldn't understand her concern or her apparent dependence. Brilliant as he was, he was baffled by expressions of sentimentality.

She loved him. She had loved him for years, of course but, in a way it was harder to come to terms with her feelings for him now than it ever had been before. It had been easy to tamp down her affections when she knew they would not -  _could not_ \- be reciprocated. But now they were actually together. They had at least both openly admitted to enjoying each other's company. They spent days and nights together, found each other's conversation stimulating and were shockingly compatible in bed. And Molly found that the love bubbled to the surface now like it never had before. It welled up behind her teeth so that she had to clench them hard to keep the words from spilling off of her tongue. Somehow she knew without it ever being said aloud that if she told him that she loved him, it would over.

He probably knew how she felt. He was too observant to have missed the signs even if he didn't particularly understand the emotion itself. But knowing was different than hearing it declared outright. Her desire to tell him was for purely selfish reasons when it came right down to it. And so she would keep clenching her teeth. Because saying the words didn't make the fact of her love any more or less potent. She loved him, and because she loved him, she would keep it to herself.

With a wistful sigh, she turned back to the mess in the kitchen.

Molly had just finished washing the last of the dishes when she heard the distant humming of the ancient pipes ceased with a high-pitched whine signifying that Sherlock had finished his shower. She was just reaching for a towel to dry her hands when someone suddenly pounded on the door to the flat.

"Hello!" a voice cried from the stairwell. "Hello, please! Are you home?" It was a feminine voice, loud and shrill with panic.

Alarmed, Molly rushed to the door calling over her shoulder, "Sherlock! Someone's here!"

"Tell them to go away," she heard him reply, raising his voice to be heard. "I'm not taking cases now."

The pounding resumed just as Molly reached for the doorknob.

"Please. Hello! I need help!"

Molly yanked open the door and gasped.

It was a young woman. She had dark hair and a fair complexion, but anything else about her appearance was too hard to discern through the matted hair and filthy attire, and, more alarmingly still, the dried blood that caked a vicious-looking wound on her forehead.

The woman fell forward, nearly collapsing into Molly's arms. "Please," she sobbed, clutching at Molly's jumper with desperate, dirty fingers. "Please, you must help me. I need - I need to find Sherlock Holmes!"

"Sherlock!" Molly shouted over her shoulder. She tried to pull away, anxious to check the severity of her wounds, but the woman clung to her even harder.

"No, please! Do not send me away. I am in danger! If you do not help me, I will most certainly be killed. Please!"

The woman's bright blue eyes were startlingly clear and wide with fear.

Distantly, as if she were two people watching the same event, Molly noted the slight softening of the woman's vowels. Her English was flawless, but she was speaking with a French accent. Molly sank to her knees, dragged down by the woman's slight weight.

The woman wept noisily, pressing her forehead hard into Molly's shoulder.

"Molly!" she heard Sherlock exclaim from behind her. "What the hell's going on? Who is - "

The woman's head lifted at the sound of his voice, and Molly felt the fingers grasping her arms tighten painfully.

"Sherlock!" the woman cried, and an expression of relieved joy washed over her pale face. With an ungainly lurch, she released Molly using her shoulder to lever herself upright. She staggered forward, reaching out to Sherlock with a trembling smile. "I've found you! Thank God!" She flung herself forward, throwing her arms around his waist, and burying her face against his chest.

Reflexively, Sherlock caught her when she sagged heavily against him. He was looking down at the young woman with his eyes wide, his face white with shock.

"Aline?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such thanks to all of you who are hanging in there with me on this story. I swear I am still writing when time permits. Probably I will be locking my children in their rooms with bread and water for an hour or two a day this summer so that I'll have time to devote to my favorite couple. I'm hoping to have it finished entirely before its one year anniversary rolls around. Note to self - write hella faster.
> 
> Katie F and allofmyheart - your patience, tolerance and encouragement is much appreciated - even if that encouragement comes in the form of excessive nagging and constant badgering.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

Sherlock looked down at the woman in his arms. Her appearance at his doorstep was so utterly unexpected that he was at a loss for words.

She was filthy. Her pale skin was smudged with dirt and dried blood, her dark hair matted and dull. He had not laid eyes on her in nearly a year, though he would have recognized her anywhere.

He had never expected to see her again. Not ever. And certainly not here.

Aline Cloutier -  _here_ , but how?

His hands fluttered across her shoulders, patting uncertainly. He was trying to remember what people did in order to offer reassurance in this kind of situation. She needed comforting, surely, before she would calm down enough to tell him what the hell was going on. But this sort of thing wasn't his forte. He needed help. He looked over at Molly, who was still in a heap on the ground, staring at Aline in wide-eyed surprise. He narrowed his eyes at her, willing her to snap out of whatever stupor it was that she had fallen into and come and  _help_ him, for God's sake.

It took entirely too long, but she finally picked herself up off of the floor and helped him pry Aline loose.

"You're hurt," Molly said, gently extricating Aline's hands from around his waist. "It's alright - I'm a doctor. Let me help you." Her voice and her manner were calm and professional. He thought it prudent of her not to clarify her specialty straight off. It might have been off-putting.

He could practically see the shift as Molly pushed past her surprise and put on her professional face. "Go and get John, please, Sherlock," she said calmly. She put a supportive arm around Aline's shoulders as she guided her into the other room.

Aline hunched, folding inward as though she were trying to make herself appear smaller. Still crying, she shuffled forward, meekly allowing Molly to tow her toward the kitchen, though she never took her eyes off of Sherlock.

Sherlock could hear Molly's soft voice murmuring words of comfort and reassurance to the stricken woman even as he darted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. With effort, he shook off the residual exhaustion that still clung to him. There would be no time for rest now.

"John!" he called out, rapping his knuckles on the door. The sleeve of his dressing gown was dotted with dark splotches. He looked down and saw that liberal streaks of half-dried blood and dirt were also smeared across the front of his shirt. He felt a flash of anger at whoever had done this to her, followed by a rising wave of vicious satisfaction. This could be the break he had been waiting for. Finally, they had made a mistake.  _Finally_ , a break in the case.

If Aline had been attacked by the same person or organization that had been going after the rest of his network and had managed to escape, he would finally have some real information to work with. Aline was intelligent and resourceful far beyond her youth. She had been an invaluable asset during his time abroad, bringing him the names and locations of many of the cells in Moriarty's network that she had tracked down on her own. And now it appeared as though she would prove useful once again.

"John!" he bellowed, banging harder this time. There were vague noises coming from the other side of the door. Too impatient to wait any longer, Sherlock turned the knob and flung the door open with a crash.

Bleary-eyed and grimacing, John was sitting up in the midst of his rumpled sheets, still wearing his shirt and trousers. "Whassit?"

"Your professional services are required in the kitchen. Now."

John scrunched his eyes closed, blinking hard. "My professional - "

"Services, yes," Sherlock finished for him. He grabbed John's blue dressing gown from the end of the bed and threw it at him. "Downstairs. Now. There's blood. Go do something about it."

"Blood?" John was suddenly wide awake. He would never entirely lose the deeply-ingrained habits he had picked up during his years as an army doctor. He slid out of bed, throwing the dressing gown over his shoulders as he made for the door. "Is Molly - "

"Not Molly." Sherlock followed him down the stairs. "Aline." John stopped suddenly on the steps and Sherlock nearly plowed into him. "Oh, for God's sake," he exclaimed, staggering to regain his balance.

John ignored him. "Aline? As in one of your contacts, Aline?"

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. He made shooing gestures towards the bottom of the stairs. "Who may well be bleeding out in our kitchen as we speak, if you don't mind."

Under the warm glow of the kitchen lights, Sherlock fidgeted while John examined the frightened young woman.

Aline winced when he shone a light in her eyes, and shied away when he gently grasped her wrist to check her pulse. Apologizing softly, John glanced up and caught Sherlock's eye, his expression hard. Molly took the girl's other hand and squeezed it, giving her a reassuring smile.

They didn't need to tell Sherlock what he already knew. The girl had been abused; badly, and for some time.

He could feel the tension settle over him like a lead vest. He knew it would be a long time before that weight would ease.

Aline, for all that she was barely twenty-two when he met her, had been as stoic and determined as any battle-hardened solider of even twice her age. This shivering, cringing creature with tear-striped cheeks was nothing like the hot-tempered, brash and bold girl that had first dropped into his life during the weeks he had spent in Spain.

Finally, John turned back to him, urging him into the other room with a flick of his eyes.

Sherlock glanced at Molly, and she gave him a short nod and got to her feet. "Alright then," she said cheerily. "Let's see about getting cleaned up and into some new clothes. You'll feel much better when you're tidied up a bit."

In the sitting room, John draped his stethoscope across the back of his neck. "She's dehydrated and malnourished," he said without preamble. His lips were pinched with barely restrained fury. "But that's the least of it, Sherlock. Somebody's mistreated that girl badly. She's covered in cuts and bruises that were inflicted over period of time - weeks at least. Some are new - I'd say within the last twenty-four hours - but some are nearly healed." John exhaled forcefully. " _Weeks,_ Sherlock," he ground out. His fingers tightened into fists. "This was done over the course of  _weeks._ They took their time with her. They were  _careful._ _"_

Sherlock gave a short nod, his eyes locked on the two women in the kitchen. Aline's eyes were cast down, fixed unseeing on an innocuous spot in the middle of the tiled floor. Molly was gently cleaning her face with a wet cloth, keeping up a one-sided conversation as she worked. "How extensive are her injuries?" he asked.

"Nothing permanently damaging, thank God," John replied. "There's a deep laceration on her leg that appears to be the worst of it, but once that's stitched up, she shouldn't experience any long-term effects. I'll put her on a course of heavy antibiotics to prevent infection, of course, but otherwise I think she'll be fine, physically."

"The wound on her head?"

"It's a nasty bump, but she doesn't show any signs of concussion. There'll be a hell of a bruise there, but I don't think there's any danger of neurological impairment. She needs to be monitored for a day or two to be on the safe side, of course."

Sherlock nodded again, silently contemplating the dark-haired girl in his kitchen. "None of the others showed signs of abuse," he said after a moment.

"What do you think that means?" John asked. He turned to watch as Molly smoothed the girl's hair away from her face. "Was it more…personal with her?"

"For me or for her captors?" Sherlock asked, cutting a sharp glance in John's direction.

John's face was implacable. "Either."

"Suffice to say that she was important to me," Sherlock replied evenly. He was not prepared to go into the intricacies of his relationship with Aline right now with John…probably ever. It was none of his business. Sherlock's gaze was drawn back to the two women in the kitchen. And Molly? Was it her business now? How much should he tell her? How much would she want to know? He took a deep breath, the lead vest weighing heavily on his chest. Everything. She would want to know everything.

Though Aline initially balked at the idea of being alone, Molly eventually managed to convince her that she should lie down in Sherlock's room, assuring her that they would remain close by while she rested.

Molly led her, now cleaned up and dressed in some of Molly's spare clothes, back to the bedroom to settle in. Young and frightened as she had looked when she first stumbled through the door, she looked younger and more frightened now. Her dark hair was brushed back from her face, damp from the thorough washing Molly had been forced to give it in order to get all of the blood out. Her face was too pale, her eyes too wide. She was swimming in the borrowed shirt and pyjama pants. Far from the cocky, self-assured woman he remembered, she looked young and vulnerable. It was hard not to think of her as a girl, though she had left childish things behind a very long time ago.

"It's alright," he said, when she clung to him. "You can rest now. You're safe."

He barely heard her whispered "thank you," before she let Molly lead her away.

Sherlock took out his phone and began texting furiously, reaching out to his remaining contacts, warning and questioning them all at once. Nothing may come of it. Few of them knew of Aline's existence, much less had actually met her. He could think of only two who had seen her face to face and both of them were among the dead.

Some time later, Molly backed out of the bedroom, leaving the door cracked to allow some light into the room. She walked gingerly, almost comically tiptoeing back into the sitting room in her efforts to make as little noise as possible. She sat carefully on the edge of the sofa and stared hard at her clasped hands, knotting them in her lap to still their trembling. Calm and coolheaded throughout the chaos of Aline's arrival, it was only now that it was all over that her hands had begun to shake.

"She's asleep," Molly said. "Should we - I don't know - call Lestrade, maybe?" She didn't look up.

"I'll take her in to give a statement in the morning," Sherlock said with a wave of dismissal. This was the first break in this case, and he wasn't about to allow the fools at Scotland Yard to interrogate the girl before he had his chance to speak to her. She had answers that he needed.

"So are you going to tell us what the hell is going on, or are we just supposed to ignore the fact that there's a bloody French school girl is asleep in your bed?" John asked, slouching back in his chair with an expectant expression on his face.

"Twenty-three," Sherlock said. Molly and John both looked up at him with a matching set of confused expressions. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the pair of them - just. "She's twenty-three," he repeated. "Hardly a school girl."

John tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips. "Well, let's start with the important information then, shall we?"

Sherlock scowled and pushed to his feet. He needed to move. "Her age is irrelevant. What  _is_ relevant, and puzzling, is that she is here at all."

"Well, you said she was one of your assets, right?" Molly managed to peel her eyes off of the carpet long enough to lock eyes with him, then she looked away again. "If she was in trouble, why wouldn't she come to you?"

"Because she had no idea who I was," Sherlock snapped, and then grimaced at the wounded expression that flashed across Molly's face. He strode across the floor, away from her, fingers tapping his leg in agitation. "She knew me as Joseph Bell. They all did. I took great pains to never associate myself with the name Sherlock Holmes."

There was a long stretch of silence as Sherlock traced a path through the sitting room, his mind whirling furiously as he incorporated this new information into the other facts he had already sorted away.

John nodded sleepily in his chair but made no move to return to his room. Aline would need to be checked on periodically, and he would be the one to do it. It would never even have occurred to him to leave her care up to anyone other than himself.

"Who is she?" Molly asked, finally breaking the silence. Her eyes were back on the carpet, her entire demeanor uncertain and withdrawn.

A wave of frustration nearly took Sherlock to his knees. He was too tired, too invested, too  _involved_  to deal with this right now.

Molly was experiencing some acute emotion that he didn't understand and couldn't fathom and didn't especially want to deal with. There were things, important things, that needed his attention. As much as he…as much as Molly was also  _important -_

He took a breath, fully intending to tell her that she was being ridiculous, that whatever outlandish scenario she had concocted for herself was likely wrong, and that he didn't have the time or inclination to set her straight when so much else was on the line.

Then he caught the expression on John's face.

The drowsy, half-conscious expression had been replaced with wide-eyed alarm. Sherlock frowned and raised an eyebrow in silent question.

John glanced at Molly, who was still examining a spot in the carpet, and then back at Sherlock, shaking his head slowly.

Sherlock rubbed a hand across his face and tried to maintain his temper. This was such a waste of time.

"I met her in Spain," he said through gritted teeth. He saw Molly's head snap up, no doubt at his tone, but he turned away, pacing once more, determined to get this nonsense out of the way so he could get back to focusing on the case. "She had already located one of Moriarty's cells just outside of Barcelona - the same one I was tracking at the time." In his mind he was scrolling rapidly thought the months of his partnership with Aline, extracting the relevant details and skipping over others entirely. "She - she helped me. And I helped her. We worked together for a time." He stopped pacing and dropped into his seat, feeding his need for motion by drumming his fingers rapidly on the armrest. "And then we went our separate ways. That's it. I haven't seen or heard from her since…until today."

He was being over-simplistic - glossing over the details, paring danger and intrigue down to the recitation of dry facts, which, while entirely truthful, didn't begin to scratch the surface of what had actually taken place. And, frankly, he did not want to discuss his association with Aline simply because he didn't entirely understand it himself. It had just  _happened._

Neither Molly nor John needed to hear the particulars about his efforts to infiltrate the Spanish contingent of Moriarty's network, or that he had been inconveniently 'made' by one of Lucho Urbina's low-level thugs. Molly certainly didn't need to hear about how they had 'questioned' him. It wouldn't comfort her. It wouldn't give her peace. He was protecting her from unnecessary pain by careful application of the truth. She wouldn't find satisfaction in hearing that Aline had broken her own cover to get him out of there after three days at the mercy of Ramiro Jimenez's creative sadism. Or that she had practically dragged him, stumbling and bloody, cradling his injured wrist to his chest while bullets tore through the wood floor around them.

The fewer visceral details Molly had to associate with his scars, the better.

None of that mattered now anyway. Those were inconsequential bits of detail that were simply not important any longer. All that mattered was that two weeks after Aline had gotten him out of there, she had returned with him to the decrepit villa and watched the building where he had been tortured burn to the ground.

When he had turned to walk away, his mind already reaching toward the next target on his list, Aline had fallen into step behind him, and it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

She had worked with him for eight months.

They had never discussed the arrangement, never established formal terms or tried to quantify it. It hadn't seemed necessary. They wanted the same things and were willing to work together to that purpose. She came and went on her own schedule, running down leads and tracking the network's movements across the globe. She would show up near the end of an operation and help him pull the final supports out from under the cell. Then, together, they would salt the earth behind it, viciously eradicating every last vestige of the enterprise and ensuring that it could not regrow from the remnants.

She had never stayed long. After they were satisfied that the cell was well and truly destroyed, she would head back out into the world to investigate another rumor. Armed with the intel she provided each time she returned, Sherlock would check it against his own information and then turn his face toward the next target.

He had not depended on her or, strictly speaking, trusted her, but he had admired her quick mind and self-assured bravado. She had been immensely useful to him, and knowing that she would appear at intervals, seemingly out of thin air, made the clawing loneliness easier to bear.

When she had come to him for the last time - a simple extraction in St Petersburg, she had dropped a heavy file box by his feet in lieu of her customary greeting.

"There are three others just like it in storage at the airport."

He had pushed himself upright slowly, not bothering to throw off his blanket he'd been sleeping under, which was nothing more than his coat, at any rate. Long nights of little sleep in nonexistent sleeping conditions had left his muscles aching and slow to respond to his demands. He looked at the box, deducing much about its contents by the scuffed and stained exterior, and more by Aline's cagy, almost guilty, demeanor.

"You're done, then."

She didn't seem at all surprised by his pronouncement. She merely nodded once before she blinked and looked away. "I am."

Sherlock leaned forward and laboriously pulled the heavy box towards him.

"That's everything I have," she said. "Every word I've heard. Every lead I've followed." She shrugged as if she were unburdening herself of a weight much heavier than the box she was giving him. "I - I found a place."

"You'll have a key to the locker?" He held out a gloved hand and waited patiently while she fished the orange keyring out of her jeans pocket. In all their time together, they had rarely discussed anything that could be considered personal. She would not expect him to ask for details and probably wouldn't have provided them if he had.

Aline had placed the key in his hand. For a split second, she pressed her fingers into his palm, then withdrew. Turning toward the door, she had stopped and flashed a quick look back over her shoulder.

"Adieu, Joseph Bell," she said. She gave him a smile that did not extend to the rest of her features. "And good luck."

And then she was gone. Forever, he had thought. He certainly hadn't expected to ever see her again. And now she was here, asleep in his bloody bedroom of all places, and the  _how_ of the thing was infuriating.

Sherlock twisted in his seat, resisting the persistent inner voice that demanded that he go and wake the girl up and  _find out_  - go and  _ask_ her how she had found him, how she knew him, how she had put Joseph Bell and Sherlock Holmes together. He wanted to, but he wouldn't. John and Molly would both be livid if he were to even consider disturbing an exhausted, injured patient under their care. He would have to wait. He would have to be  _patient_. The thought made him scowl.

"Why did she help you?"

Molly's question interrupted the flow of his thoughts, and it took him a moment to realize she had spoken. "What?"

She flinched almost imperceptibly. He had snapped at her. He hadn't meant to. He closed his eyes and took a breath, meaning to apologize, meaning to  _explain._ But Molly filled the space.

"She's practically a kid, Sherlock. How did she get caught up in all of this in the first place? Why was she there? What has she got to do with Jim Moriarty?

"He killed my parents," came the soft reply.

Aline stood in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom, her bare toes poking out the bottom of the ridiculously long pants. She stood straight with her shoulders back, her dark hair swept off to one side The dark bloom of the bruise on her forehead was stark against her pale skin, but she looked calmer, more collected, more herself - more the way he remembered her.

He felt himself relax a degree, letting go of some small part of the tension that weighed him down. Aline hadn't been broken by this. She would survive and in time, she would recover.

She padded into the room and stood with her hands clasped in front of her, looking for all the world like a child about to recite a verse.

"Six years ago, James Moriarty murdered my parents," she said without preamble. Her eyes flicked away, her gaze distant. "He shot them down in front of me, and then he laughed - such an awful laugh. I… I watched my maman and papa die gasping in a pool of their own blood." She pressed her lips together and then looked back up at them. Molly and John were gawping at her like a pair of beached trout. "I swore I would avenge them," Aline went on. 'I swore that I would destroy him the way he destroyed my family. And I  _did._ _"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! Actual proof that I 1) still exist and 2) occasionally boot up my computer. Admittedly, it's not nearly as much as I would like, but children. I have not, as of yet, locked them in their rooms on prison rations, but I have been tempted a couple of times.
> 
> Bless each and every one of y'all who have hung in there this long. And thank you from the bottom of my heart for your reviews. I appreciate them more than you can imagine. I swear the end is not far away! I mean, in terms of number of chapters, not how long it's going to take me to write because…well, I'm slow.
> 
> I hope y'all will indulge me for a second while I pimp my new fanart. The extraordinarily talented Flavialikestodraw has done some INCREDIBLE work for my Sherlolly story 'Three-Quarters Curiosity' as well as my Khanolly one-shot 'By Any Other Name'. Both stories are on ffnet with the artwork as cover art. Even if you don't bother to read the stories, check out her AMAZING work! There will eventually be cover art for Science of Perception as well as my Third Star fic 'Golden Hour'.
> 
> Continued thanks to both Katie F and allofmyheart for beta work, pestering and encouragement by turns. Neither one of them is *ever* going to speak to me again when this is all over. The only reason they're still talking to me NOW is because they want to see how the story ends:)


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Silence hung in the room.

Sherlock was unperturbed, of course, but John's expression showed that he, at least, was as uncertain about how to respond to Aline's fierce proclamation as Molly was.

Finally, John coughed. "I should, um - why don't we take a look at that bump on your head?" He managed to flash a quick smile at Aline as he pushed himself out of his chair.

Aline regarded him quizzically for a moment, then nodded, preceding him into the kitchen at his gesture.

The room descended back into silence. Sherlock seemed lost in his thoughts. Molly's were banging around in her head so erratically that she could barely focus on one before another came along and knocked it out of the way.

Who was Aline Cloutier? What had happened to her? Was she going to be okay? What did this mean for the case? Was this the break that Sherlock had been waiting for? But the thought that kept coming back around, the one that made Molly feel ashamed on top of everything else, was - what had Aline been to Sherlock? Had she been… _special_  to him? Had they ever - She shook her head to clear the unwelcome image that came to mind, of Sherlock looking down at Aline with the same heat and intensity that she saw in his eyes when he looked at her.

It was appalling that she should even think such a thing. Even if it was true, even if there had been something between them, now was not the time -

And if it was true, could she fault Sherlock for finding someone during his exile? As much as he liked to insist that he didn't  _need_  anyone, that he was better off alone, two years was a long time to go without any kind of companionship. She should be thankful that Aline had been there for him, shouldn't she? If Aline had been. Or if it had been that type of relationship. Which it might not have been. But even if it was - "

"Stop it," Sherlock said.

He was sitting back in his chair with his legs crossed, his fingers curled against his lower lip. He wasn't looking at her.

"Stop what?"

"Thinking."

"You want me to stop - "

"Yes."

"Thinking."

"Yes.

"Oh." She blinked. "Why?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "Because it's counterproductive. And I don't have it in me just now to attempt to parse subtle social cues. If you have a question, ask it."

She felt foolish. And she wasn't about to share these particular thoughts with him. "No, it's fine. I don't - "

"Molly." Exhaustion and impatience turned her name into an exasperated plea. "I will tell you anything you want to know, but I can't guess what it is that you need to hear right now."

He looked so tired ,and she felt utterly ridiculous. Was this really what she was going to let herself be reduced to? Jealousy? Why? Because Aline had shared a period in Sherlock's life that Molly had no part in? Because Aline had been important to Sherlock before her?

Molly stood and crossed over to him, shrugging off her uncertainty regarding Aline like an ill-fitting cloak. She rarely invaded his personal space without invitation, but she did so now, stooping so that she could wrap her arms around him. She tucked her nose into the hollow of his shoulder and took a deep breath. He smelled primarily of soap now, thanks to his recent shower, but it was a comfort, nonetheless.

"I just need you to tell me that you're going solve this case. And that everything is going to go back to normal."

"Of course I am," he said. After a moment of initial stiffness, he relaxed in her arms and stroked a hand absently down the curve of her spine. "And of course it will."

"And then you'll take me on holiday to the seaside."

"Absolutely not," he replied without hesitation.

She laughed and sat up, pausing to brush a quick kiss across his lips. "Thank you."

Sherlock blinked up at her. "For what?"

"For being you."

"I could hardly be anything else, could I?" he said, but there was a note of teasing in his voice, and he smiled as he reached up to brush her hair away from her cheek.

"Excuse me. I did not mean to interrupt." Aline stood primly in her borrowed clothing, watching them curiously.

Molly scrambled to her feet, feeling absurdly as though she had been caught doing something naughty. "No. It's fine. You didn't. I mean, we're not -  _you_ _'_ _re_ not interrupting. It's fine." She was blushing furiously. "How are you? I mean - are you feeling any better? Do you need anything?"

"No." Aline shook her head. "I do not require anything just now. Your Doctor Watson has taken quite good care of me. I thank you." She gave Molly a quick smile, but her face didn't truly light up until she looked down at Sherlock. "And so, Joseph Bell," she said, enunciating the name with a slight arch of one eyebrow, "it seems fate has thrown us together once again, no?"

"I am hardly likely to ascribe the deliberate machinations of a madman to anything as patently ridiculous as  _fate_ ," Sherlock replied. "As you well know." He pushed smoothly to his feet and walked over to Aline. He kept his hands clasped behind his back while he examined the bruise on her forehead. For her part, Aline remained still and silent, her face tilted up, watching him intently. "It wasn't a weapon," he said after a moment.

" _Non_ ," Aline agreed. "Or at least, not in the traditional sense." Her lips tilted up in macabre amusement. "It was nothing more intimidating than a cement wall, I'm afraid." Sherlock raised his hand and let his fingers ghost over the injured flesh without actually touching her. Aline didn't blink. "The first time I attempted escape, they simply laughed, and then held me over the bow of the ship with my hands bound behind me," she said. "They offered to help me on my way unless I begged to go back into the box and promised to play nice."

"What did you do?" Molly blurted and then pressed her knuckles to her lips. She could feel the blush crawling up her throat, staining her skin crimson. "No, sorry - "

But Aline had already turned her clear gaze on Molly and answered simply. "I begged. And then I promised. I did not want to die, Miss Hooper."

"No - no, of course not," Molly fumbled over her words, wishing wholeheartedly that she could just sink down into the carpet. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I was just - '

"It's quite alright," Aline assured her and then turned her attention back to Sherlock. "The second time, they were less gentle." She touched the bruise with a finger and then winced.

"And the third time?" Sherlock prompted.

For the first time, a real smile appeared on Aline's face. "The third time, I succeeded. And the  _chien sale_  who hit me died."

The ring of satisfaction in the girl's voice made Molly feel cold. How could someone so young have such a cavalier attitude while recalling kidnapping, torture and murder? Aline should be finishing up university or starting out her life; batting her eyes at all the young men that would fall at her feet; traveling the world; walking barefoot on foreign beaches; or laughing over coffee and wine with friends as young and beautiful as she was. She should be living the free-spirited life of a young woman, not slinking furtively though the shadows and surviving on her own wits. Molly felt even more ashamed of her reaction to Aline's appearance.

Sherlock reached down and gently took Aline's wrists. He brought her hands up, rotating them so that they lay, tiny and delicate as a child's, in his palm as he examined the cuts and bruises that marred the tender skin around her wrists. "They would have killed you," he said, his eyes still firmly locked on her hands.

" _Oui_ ," she said softly. "I know."

"I am glad they did not." He closed her hands protectively between his own for a moment, pressing them lightly, and then he released her. "If you find that you cannot sleep," he went on, indicating John's chair before he returned to his own, "I have a few questions I would like to ask."

"Of course," Aline said. She sat gingerly on the edge of the chair and settled back slowly, wincing at the pressure against her battered body. "I imagine there are many things you wish to know."

Molly returned to her seat on the couch, desperately curious despite the exhaustion that was starting to overtake her. She couldn't imagine how Sherlock and John were standing it.

It occurred to her that John had not come back into the room with Aline. She craned her head to see into the kitchen and saw him, asleep at the island, his head pillowed on his arms, his hand still clasping scraps of bandage wrappers. She briefly considered waking him so that he could go up to bed, but probably he would insist on remaining awake to monitor Aline. Better to let him sleep as he was.

"Tell me how you found me," Sherlock asked, pulling Molly's attention back to the present conversation.

"You cannot deduce it?" Aline asked with a wry smile.

Sherlock shifted in his chair. "No," he said. "I know I never slipped up with you. I never told you my real name. I never told you I lived in England, much less London."

"Oh, Sherlock." Aline laughed, and it was a surprisingly deep-throated sound. "Sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one, you know." She leaned forward with deliberate effort and picked up one of the newspapers that lay scattered about the room. "Dashing Detective Derails Dastardly Duo," she read, and then turned the page around. A black and white photo of Sherlock glowered out at them from below the headline. "Dashing, certainly," she added, turning the page back around so that she could examine the photo more thoroughly. "But were they truly 'dastardly', Sherlock?" She arched a dark eyebrow at him and then laughed again at the nonplussed expression on his face. "I knew nothing of Sherlock Holmes until I escaped from my captors." She folded the newspaper and let it drop into her lap. "I thought to go at once to the police, but you can imagine my surprise when one of the first things I see is a photo of my old friend, Joseph Bell, staring out at me from behind the news agent's stand. You were not so very hard to find after that, Sherlock Holmes."

"As simple as that," Sherlock said.

" _Oui_ ," Aline said. "As simple as that. Almost as if it were fated, no?" The corner of her lips turned up in a wry smile. "Surely you did not think I actually believed that your name was Joseph Bell?"

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned. "I had hoped others would."

"Others undoubtedly did," she assured him. "I simply have a - let us call it -  _familiarity_ with those who have reason to leave a name behind them while they make their way in the world."

Sherlock seemed to think this over for a moment and then nodded. "How were you taken?"

A shadow flickered across Aline's face. "At night. Near my home. I was careless." Her eyes narrowed in concentration. "There was a man. He called my name. I was wary - I had heard whispers about danger to those who called themselves friends of Joseph Bell - but then behind me - " She broke off, frowning. "I felt a hand on my wrist, and then a pinch, just here." She reached across her body to the back of her upper arm, filling in the memory as it came to her. Her frown deepened, digging furrows between her brows as she fought to remember, and then she shook her head. "And then nothing. After that, I remember nothing until I awoke in the hold of the ship."

"When?" Sherlock's face was blank, he looked almost bored, but Molly knew he was hanging on every word.

"It was just after midnight," she said. "On the ninth of January."

Molly gasped, but it was Sherlock who spoke. "Eight weeks." His hands were clasped and pressed hard against his chin. "They had you for eight weeks."

" _Oui_."

"We're so sorry this happened to you," Molly said, because she knew Sherlock was even if it would never have occurred to him to say it. Her heart ached for Aline - not just for the physical pain that she had endured, though surely that as well, but for the life she had been forced to live, where pain and fear and danger were an acceptable, even expected, fact of living.

"I thank you," Aline replied. "But it is not your fault. Nor yours." She looked pointedly at Sherlock. "I do not blame you, Sherlock. I hope you know that. What happened to me - what happened to all of us - you could have done nothing other than what you did. The ghost of James Moriarty had to be removed from the earth, and there was no one to do it but you. Those of us who helped you - we knew our risks. We chose this path. And I, for one, do not regret it."

Sherlock looked away. He was silent for a long moment. Whether he was processing the absolution Aline was offering, or merely contemplating the information she had provided, Molly wasn't sure.

"You said you had heard whispers," he said finally, neatly, and unsurprisingly avoiding any reference to Aline's reassurances. "So you knew. You knew what was happening to my - to the others?"

"There are those that make their way in the world by dealing in information," Aline said. "It is an ugly profession. They are like cockroaches picking morsels from debris." Her upper lip curled in distaste. "But even a cockroach has its place in the order of things. And in my world, the information peddlers eat like kings, because knowledge is an advantage that all desire and few possess - only those who can afford it. I paid dearly for the news that Joseph Bell's friends were in danger, that the rumors of disappearances were more than just idle gossip. We were being targeted and removed, one by one. I read the list of the names, and then I knew for certain." She looked at Sherlock, her eyes creased in pain. "They were good people, Sherlock. I am sorry for their loss."

Sherlock looked away, and Molly knew without asking that he was reciting the names to himself - the people that he had lost. He often did it under his breath without realizing he was doing it, and she had come to know the names almost as well as her own - Mihail Puntjar, Awurama Ngosa, Tom and Léa Claes, Ada Krupke, Aakhib Tahmazov, Mazen Said, Yasmin Srour, Mohammad Mahmoud, Dimitry Andreyev.  _But not Aline Cloutier!_ she thought fiercely. The monsters had gotten to the others, but they would not take her. Sherlock would solve the case, find the people behind this and make sure they paid dearly for their crimes.

"Do you know where they took you once you reached England?" Sherlock asked. "Could you find the place again?"

"I'm not sure," Aline said. She chewed her bottom lip in thought. "It was dark when they took me off the ship. I was injured and half-conscious, but I know we drove for some time. They spoke of 'the warehouse', and we were inside a building when they pulled me from the truck. I was kept in a room with a lock on the door - an office of some kind, perhaps. I do not know."

"And when you escaped?"

"When I escaped, it was in the back of a van that was parked nearby - white with no markings. We took a circuitous route. I was unable to track our movements, I am afraid." She gave Sherlock an apologetic glance. "When the van finally stopped, I waited until the driver was away, and then I slipped out. I was in a place called Epping and had not gone more than a quarter-hour on foot before I saw your face at the newsagent's." She toyed idly with the paper in her lap. "And here I had no idea that my good friend was  _une c_ _é_ _l_ _é_ _brit_ _é_ _._ _"_

Sherlock made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat and got to his feet again. "I have maps of the city. We'll work backwards - start with the address where you got out of the van and try to track your movements."

"I am willing to try, of course," Aline said. She levered her way carefully out of her chair.

Molly tried to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn that made her eyes water. She had no idea how they were managing it. Even with a full nine hours of rest from the night before, she was sagging against the sofa, barely able to keep her eyes open. Both Sherlock and Aline seemed ready and willing to carry on all night.

"Molly," Sherlock said. He was unfolding maps and spreading them across his desk while Aline leaned near his elbow, eyes narrowed in concentration as she examined the pages. "You might as well go to bed. We may be a while."

"Oh," Aline looked at Molly with interest. "I am sorry, I did not realize that you lived here, Miss Hooper."

"Oh no. No, I don't. I live across town. I just visit, and I - um, spend the night sometimes." Molly blushed again, and then felt ridiculous for having blushed. She was thirty-two years old. She could stay the night at her - whatever's house if she wished. She got to her feet and checked the time. "I think I'm actually going to head home, Sherlock. You have work to do and I don't want to be a bother - "

Sherlock frowned at her. "Don't be ridiculous. It makes no sense for you to go now. You've already missed the last train, and there's no reason for you to get a cab at this hour. Go to bed. I'll catch you up in the morning." Plainly considering the case closed, Sherlock turned his attention back to the maps in front of him. "Alright, here's Epping. Can you estimate the amount of time you were in the back of the van?"

Too tired to argue, Molly got to her feet. She tried to ignore the strange tightness in her chest that she felt when she looked at Aline and Sherlock, their dark heads bent together over the maps, twin looks of absorption on their faces. She went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystery! Suspense! An actual update! Poor Aline has suffered so much - I hope Sherlock is able to solve the case soon...
> 
> Thank you, as always, to each and every one of you lovely readers who stop by to take a dip in my little universe. I am grateful for all of you. Your messages and reviews keep me writing when the going gets tough. I cannot tell you enough how much I appreciate having you all along on this journey.
> 
> My undying appreciation, adulation and apologies to Kate F and allofmyheart for all they do to keep this story readable. If anyone has any spare commas they can send to Katie, please do. She has GOT to be running low by now:)


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

Molly woke the following morning feeling groggy and unsettled. It had been a long night filled with tossing and turning and disconcerting dreams. She didn't need to look to know that the space next to her was empty and undisturbed. Sherlock hadn't come to bed. With a superhuman force of will, she threw back the blankets and got up. She pulled on the same clothes she had worn the night before, mentally promising herself a shower when she got home, and then followed the sound of voices into the kitchen.

Despite the long night and trauma of the previous day, Aline looked as bright-eyed and alert as if she had gotten a full night's rest. The bruise on her forehead looked worse in the morning light, but the edges were already beginning to pale. It would heal nicely.

Sherlock was already dressed for the day in trousers and a shirt with his jacket buttoned across chest. He must have been planning to head out early, otherwise he would still be wearing his dressing gown. His dark curls were brushed back away from his face in lieu of the haircut he so badly needed. Molly resisted the urge to offer him a barrette. He looked entirely unaffected by the protracted lack of sleep, of course. Exhaustion never seemed to faze him. He might crash later and sleep for two days straight, but the case was enough to keep him moving forward for now.

His attention was fixed on his phone when she entered the kitchen. He didn't look up, but he did pause to hand her a steaming mug of coffee as he passed by on his way into the sitting room.

John, at least, appeared somewhat the worse for wear. His eyes were bloodshot, his face unshaven and haggard. He sat slumped over his coffee, looking as though he might, at any moment, slide out of his chair and on to the floor.

"Good morning, Miss Hooper," Aline said, crinkling clear blue eyes at her over the rim of her own mug. "I hope you slept well."

"Um, yes, thanks." Molly took a sip of her coffee and grimaced at the bitter taste. Wordlessly, John pushed the sugar dish across the table. "Did you and Sherlock have any luck last night?" she asked. She spooned sugar into her coffee and focused on stirring it.

" _Oui_. A bit," Aline answered with a flicker of a smile. "There are a several possibilities that seem promising. We are going to go today and check a few places - after we visit the policeman at Scotland Yard, I think."

Sherlock poked his head back into the kitchen. "John, can I borrow your car?"

John sighed and drooped lower over his mug. "You've already nicked my keys, haven't you?"

"Yes."

He flapped a hand at Sherlock. "Go on then. I'll take the Tube."

Sherlock disappeared again.

"Well, good luck today," Molly said. She felt a bit foolish offering encouragement, but what else could she say? Maybe they  _would_ have good luck, and this whole ordeal would be tied up by lunchtime. One could only hope.

"I thank you," Aline replied with a solemn tilt of her head.

Nothing in Aline's demeanor suggested that she thought Molly's comment was anything out of the ordinary. Of course, Molly supposed, this sort of thing probably wasn't all that out of the ordinary for her. She probably did things like this all the time.

"I do hope Sherlock is planning to get you some new clothes first," Molly said suddenly, eyeing Aline's outfit dubiously. The pants and shirt were oversized even for Molly. Aline looked like a child playing dress-up.

"Should I be?" Sherlock said as he came back into the room. "Why? She's wearing clothes, isn't she?" He gestured at Aline as though Molly might have missed that fact.

"Sherlock," Molly said, sharing an amused look with Aline. "You have to get her something that fits before you start dragging her around the city. She's swimming in that."

He looked back and forth between the two women at his breakfast table. Puzzled brackets furrowed his brow, then smoothed away as an idea took hold. "Molly," he began, "Could you - "

"Sorry, Sherlock." Molly tried to smother her grin as she slid out of the chair and went to set her coffee mug in the sink. "I really can't. I have to get home and feed Toby before I head into work."

Sherlock frowned, and then turned to John. "John, could you - " He trailed off. John was fast asleep at the table with his chin propped up in his hand. "Oh, never mind." With an irritated huff, he turned on his heel and began stabbing at his phone again as he strode out of the room.

Aline chuckled. "In most things, our Sherlock has no equal," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. "But, in others…well, there is room for improvement, no?"

Molly resisted the impulse to say 'no' and instead merely gave a noncommittal smile in reply.

The morning was getting on, and Molly could tell by Sherlock's growing agitation that he was going to explode out the door the moment his plans for the day came together. She gathered her bag and touched his arm briefly as she passed through the sitting room on her way out. It was hardly their customary way of parting, but she could not quite shake the discomfort she felt at the prospect of kissing Sherlock in front of Aline.

Sherlock looked up from his phone and frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Home," she reminded him. "Cat? Needs food occasionally?"

"Oh, yes. Right then." Never one to waste time being self-conscious, Sherlock leaned down and kissed her quickly on the lips before diving back into his texting.

Molly couldn't help the pleased smile that fixed itself across her face as she jogged down the stairs to hail a cab.

Toby greeted Molly the moment she opened the door to her flat, winding his way between her legs and tripping her neatly as she tried to untangle herself from the strap of her bag.

"Silly beast," she scolded him with an affectionate scowl.

Unperturbed, the cat butted his solid head against her shins until she had divested herself of her bag, coat and keys and finally bent to pick him up.

There were any one of a hundred things she should be doing right now, but instead she curled up in a corner of the sofa with Toby sprawled across her lap, purring like a lorry.

Fully aware that he would only tolerate this arrangement as long as he was getting something out of it, Molly obligingly stroked Toby's back, pausing periodically to scratch him under the chin. The cat's eyes creased into narrow slits and the purring ratcheted up a notch, a subterranean rumble that she could feel as much as hear.

"You and Sherlock are really quite a lot alike, you know," she said conversationally. "You're both bossy and rude and think you're the smartest thing in the room at any given time - though, to be fair, you often  _are_ ," she added as an afterthought. Toby flicked an ear in reply and she smiled and ran her fingers through his fur. "I also have a suspicion that you both like this sort of thing far more than you're willing to let on."

He yawned at that, pointed incisors bared, pink tongue curling into a backwards C.

"Yeah, Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate the comparison either."

She sighed and leaned back against the sofa. The sun was fully up, bathing the flat with a cheerful yellow glow that seemed in direct opposition to her unsettled state of mind. Toby was a comforting spot of warmth across her legs. The room was silent save for his contented grumbling and the muted traffic noise from the street below. It was calm, and familiar, and peaceful. After the chaos of the night before, she could really use a few minutes of peaceful.

Molly had always thought of herself as the sort of person who could roll with the punches and take things as they came. As unpredictable as life with Sherlock could be, it was something of a relational imperative. And really, it wasn't that she was having a hard time dealing with things now; she just needed time to  _process_. Ten hours ago, Aline Cloutier had been just another faceless name on an increasingly morbid list. Now, in the course of one very strange and chaotic night, the girl had stumbled into the middle of Sherlock's flat and instantly become the focal point of the most personal case of his life. It was a sudden and dramatic shift to the usual order of things, and Molly felt like she was scrambling to adjust. There was certainly something about Aline, something that made her important -  _special -_ to Sherlock. She was intelligent, of course, but she was also brave and resourceful, intense and enigmatic.  _Very like Sherlock,_ Molly thought.  _Not so very much like me._

She grimaced and pushed the thought away. She was being foolish again.

It had to be the lack of sleep that was weighing her down, she decided. The sun had risen and burned away the remaining vestiges of the previous night, but the strangeness of it had stayed with her, tenacious as a shadow on a sunny day. It felt as though something significant was about to happen - or was already happening.

Molly shifted restlessly, trying to shake off the mental discomfort, but instead she only succeeded in dislodging Toby. Aggravated, he wriggled out from beneath her fingers and leapt to the floor. With a disdainful flick of his tail, he sauntered off in the direction of the kitchen to examine the status of his food dish.

Bowing to the inevitable, Molly pushed to her feet. "Breakfast for you and then me," she announced as she followed him into the kitchen, leaving the sunlight and uneasiness behind to fend for themselves.

The morgue was blessedly calm, which Molly was grateful for on a variety of levels. There was only a single post-mortem on her docket for the afternoon, and that one was a clinical 'standard of care' autopsy. Nothing had come in from the Yard over the past few days, and that was a relief of a different sort.

Violent deaths had never disturbed her especially. It was one of the reasons Barts had seemed like such an ideal post - constant variety, unique challenges, the opportunity to help the police with criminal investigations. It was…well, it was  _exciting,_  is what it was. She had learned quickly not to exhibit too much enthusiasm when she discussed her work with anyone outside the pathology department - though not quickly enough to avoid earning the 'morbid Molly' sobriquet that seemed likely to cling to her through retirement. Still, she had always been fascinated by the cases that came in, even the gruesome ones…until now.

Ever since the connection had been made between Sherlock and the faceless murders, Molly had quailed at the news that a trauma victim was being brought in. Her palms grew damp and her heart raced until the body was brought in and an identification was made. Only then was she able to relax and regain her usual professional detachment.

They all needed this case to be solved, and soon.

Her thoughts turned frequently to Sherlock and Aline as she went about her day. Had they learned anything new during their interview with Greg? How had the Detective Inspector reacted to the news that one of the murderer's victims had escaped and come straight to Sherlock rather than phoning the police? Had anything come of the leads they were following up on? Her mobile remained frustratingly silent no matter how many times she checked to make sure that she had the sound on.

It wasn't until much later, as she was tidying up after Mr. Wollcraft, that the doors to the morgue swung open and Sherlock blew in like a dark omen on a gale-force wind.

"Are the autopsy reports still on your desk?" he asked without preamble. He was already halfway across the room, intent on the stack of files that lay in a haphazard pile on her desk.

"Um," Molly said, blinking up at him through her face shield.

Aline followed Sherlock into the room on the backswing of the door. "Good evening, Molly," she said, with a polite nod.

"Oh, uh, hello," Molly managed. She hesitated and then remembered that she was holding a handful of bloody autopsy tools. "Sorry, I'll just - " She turned around and deposited the enterotome and rib cutters into the sink for sterilization, and then dropped her face shield in after them. She remembered at the last second to strip off her gloves before she rubbed at the indentation that the mask always left behind.

Sherlock glanced up from her desk, where he was busily flipping through file folders, and gave her a long, assessing look. "Clinical autopsy, was it?" he asked and went back to flipping.

"Yes," Molly said, as she divested herself of surgical mask and scrubs. She didn't even bother wondering how he deduced things like that anymore. "Ischemic heart disease resulting in acute myocardial infarction. Rather unfortunate for Mr. Wollcraft, but otherwise fairly straight-forward." She smoothed her hair back and straightened her shirt with a self-conscious tug.

Sherlock had taken Aline shopping. Molly supposed she should be gratified to see that he had taken her advice, but instead she realized that she would have much preferred if the girl were still faffing about in her old clothes.

Gone were the over-sized sweats and the dirty, blood-stained rags she had arrived in. Instead she wore snug black trousers and boots, a low-necked white shirt and a form-fitting black jacket that made Molly rather forcibly aware of those five stubborn pounds that she couldn't quite seem to lose. Aline's hair was pulled back into a simple pony-tail that showcased the vivid bruise on her temple, but she still seemed to give off air of elegance and poise that Molly wouldn't be able to duplicate on her best day. How did she  _do_  that?

"So did you have any luck today…with the um, places you were going to try?" she asked when it became clear that neither of them was going to offer up the information. "Warehouses, was it?"

"No," Sherlock said at the same time as Aline's "Yes".

"Yes to warehouses, no to luck," Sherlock clarified, still scanning through file folders.

"Well," Aline interjected with a wry smile, "We do now know a few more places where they are not."

Molly smiled back a little wanly and then spoke over Aline's shoulder. "Check in the bottom drawer, Sherlock," she suggested. "I think Howard may have moved them."

Sherlock dove for the drawer and came up a few seconds later with an exclamation of satisfaction. "Ah, yes. Here we are." With his head still bent, fingers flipping rapidly through the pages, Sherlock turned toward the door. "Come along, Aline. I'll take you through the timeline."

"Oh," Molly said, unable to help the wash of disappointment. "You're going straightaway then?"

"Yes." Sherlock stopped and looked up at her through his eyelashes. "Problem?"

"Well, no," she said. She plucked at a string on her sleeve. "I have other copies of the case files, but I thought…" She trailed off, all too aware of the coolly assessing look Aline was giving her. Molly cleared her throat. "I was sort of hoping to hear more about how things went today - with Lestrade, I mean. What did he, um…how did he take it?"

"How did he take what?" Sherlock asked, and then his face cleared. "Oh, you mean how did he take the fact that a break in his case wandered into his office in the middle of his morning tea? With his usual pointless blustering and ineptitude, I assure you." He gestured towards the door with a jerk of his chin. "Aline?"

Aline gave Molly a sympathetic look and rolled her eyes. "Really, Sherlock," she chided. "Surely even you can spare a moment to properly take leave of your girlfriend?"

"Oh, no!" Molly said. Her face flamed. She couldn't bring herself to look in Sherlock's direction. "No. We're not -  _I'm_  not - "

"Molly is not my  _girlfriend,"_ Sherlock said with a disdainful sniff. "Don't be absurd."

Molly busied herself with Mr. Wollcraft's paperwork to keep from having to look at either of them.

"Oh, I see," Aline said. She flicked a doubtful glance back and forth between them. "I apologize. I had assumed - " She broke off and then shook her head, smiling ruefully. "But of course my friend Joseph was never likely to settle down with someone, was he? He was a - what is it called - a 'lone wolf', yes?" She laughed and then turned to Molly, the subject clearly dismissed. "We were planning to have dinner and go over the case files. Perhaps you could come as well? I think that your input would be most valuable to the investigation."

"Um, thank you, but no," Molly said. A small part of her subconscious urged her to speak up, to defend her relationship with Sherlock, to insist that she had a position of importance in his life. But when she looked up at him, he was engrossed in the files in front of him, entirely uninterested in the conversation, so she let it drop. "Actually, I'm kind of tired," she went on, tapping a stack of paperwork into a neat pile. "I think I'm just going to head home once I'm done here. You don't need me." She went on quickly before either of them could object - or worse, not object. "Sherlock knows everything I know about the autopsies, anyway. He can tell you anything you need to know."

"If you are certain?" Aline said, her eyebrows raised in elegantly-sculpted query.

Molly nodded, forcing a pleasant smile across her lips. "Definitely sure. Have fun." She winced. "No. I mean, good luck."

When they were gone, Molly allowed herself to sag into a chair, kicking herself inwardly for letting Sherlock's cavalier attitude bother her, and then again for caring what Aline might think about them.  _She_  knew how things were between herself and Sherlock. What did it matter what anyone else thought?

But it did somehow.

A wearisome day was made even longer when Mrs. Forester managed to corner Molly in the vestibule of their building before she could make the stairs.

"But, darling, I never  _see_  you anymore, do I?" Mrs. Forester insisted when Molly tried to excuse herself. "We haven't had a proper chat in ages. You're always with that Holmes fellow these days. He is rather handsome, isn't he?"

"Yes, Mrs. Forester," Molly replied, just managing not to sigh out loud. "He is. Sorry, it's just that I'm on my way - "

"But really, my dear, you must bring him by to say hello." Mrs. Forester was sixty if she was a day, but Molly recognized the coy gleam in the older woman's eyes. "Perhaps you could bring him for dinner sometime? I've seen him on the telly, you know. He looks as though he could use a bit of feeding up."

"Yes, Mrs. Forester," Molly said, sidling towards the stairs as she spoke. She wanted a bath, a cuddle with Toby and then  _sleep._ She would reexamine everything in the morning. Life would make more sense then, she was sure of it. "I'll mention it to Sherlock. I'm sure we can work something out. Have a lovely evening, Mrs. Forester!"

Molly took the steps quickly, calling the last bit over her shoulder and hoping that she hadn't just resigned Sherlock and herself to an awkward evening perched on Mrs. Forester's chintz sofa, fending off overly personal questions and plates of crumbly biscuits.

It was with a profound sense of relief that she finally jabbed the key to her flat into the lock and pushed the door open. She was thinking longingly ahead to her bath as she shrugged out of her coat, and it took her a moment to realize that anything was amiss.

She dropped her bag and keys by the door and stood still for a moment, trying to place the sensation of  _wrongness_  that had settled over her.

The flat was silent. Nothing seemed out of place. She felt a little ridiculous, standing frozen inside her own door, but she could not shake the feeling that something was off.

There was a faintly unpleasant odor in the air that made her nose twitch. She made a face. Toby must have gotten into the bin in the kitchen again.

Toby.

Molly frowned. She couldn't remember the last time she had come home and he wasn't waiting just inside the door. She called his name and then listened hard, but the silence went on undisturbed.

"Toby?" she called again. She could hear the shrill note in her own voice. Uneasiness graduated into full-blown anxiety. Something was definitely wrong.

There was no sign of him in the sitting room or kitchen. His food dish was still more than half-full, which was unusual enough in itself. She called for him as she crept cautiously down the hallway to her bedroom.

The door wasn't completely closed. There was a small gap that allowed the faint light from the streetlamp to spill into the hallway in a long bluish rectangle. But the door had been wide open when she left for work. She was sure of it.

The smell was stronger here, a thick, gamy scent that hung heavily in the air and seemed to clog her lungs. She tried not to identify it, tried not to  _know,_ but she was already breathing hard against the pressure that suddenly constricted her chest. Reluctantly, she reached out a shaking hand and pushed the door open. Then, with a barely suppressed sob that tore at her throat, Molly turned on the light.

Toby was stretched out in the middle of her bed, dead.

He had been disemboweled. His body was laid carefully open like a specimen on a dissection table. Her plain white duvet looked like something out of a horror film. There was just  _so much blood_. It hardly seemed possible that so much could have come from such a small animal. The bedding and the carpet around the periphery were completely saturated. It was beginning to dry around the edges, fading from violent crimson to rusty brown, but there were still impossibly dark patches that gleamed wetly beneath the overhead light. Streaks and spots decorated the pillows and patterned the wall above where she slept at night.

 _Arterial spray_ , she thought, dazedly.  _They cut the carotid artery while his heart was still beating._

And then she screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No actual cats were harmed during the writing of this fic.
> 
> A/N: Sorry folks. I hated to do it, but it had to be done.
> 
> I apologize for the lengthy absence. It was a happy, hectic, whirlwind of a summer, but it didn't allow for much in the way of writing time. And now school is back in session, both of the minions are off my hands for a few hours each week, and I am able, once again, to indulge in a little one-on-one time with my favorite OTP. I hope some of you are still hanging in there!
> 
> Thank you for all the reviews and messages. Even if you were just poking me to see if I was still alive, I appreciated hearing from you guys. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to Katie F for encouraging me every few days with a gentle 'IS IT DONE YET?' She's a big help with the commas too.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Sherlock was a dark shape looming over her, blocking out the bright overhead light in Mrs. Forester's fussy kitchen. Molly sat at the table with her shoulders hunched over a steaming mug of tea. Mrs. Forester had draped a ghastly green and yellow afghan across her shoulders, but Molly still felt half frozen.

"You're sure the door was locked when you arrived?"

Molly tightened her fingers around the heavy earthenware mug, as much for the warmth as to still her hands from shaking. "Yes," she said hoarsely. "I'm sure." She swallowed hard and flinched. Her throat was raw from crying, and from being sick in Mrs. Forester's pristine loo the moment she'd arrived on her doorstep.

"You're certain?" Sherlock persisted. "And you're sure you didn't leave it unlocked when you left for work?"

"Yes!" she said. "Of course I'm sure!" She wished he would stop being a detective for five minutes. She had called him as soon as she was calm enough to speak, but she should have known that Sherlock's first impulse would be to examine the crime scene. She'd been sitting in Mrs. Forester's kitchen, shaking like a leaf, for a quarter of an hour before he came back downstairs to interview her.

"And you didn't notice anything at all unusual or out of place?"

"Other than the dead cat in the middle of my bed?" There was a shrill edge to her voice. She sounded unhinged even to herself. She pressed her lips together as if she could stem the tide of hysteria that way. And then her eyes brimmed over again. "Oh, Toby," she said softly. She sagged forward and pillowed her face on her crossed arms, letting her tears soak silently into the scratchy blanket. She wasn't sure she was ever going to stop crying.

Mrs. Forester insinuated herself between Molly and Sherlock, shooing him back. "Give her a bit of space, Mr. Holmes. She's had a terrible fright."

"Yes, I am well aware of that, Mrs. Forester," Sherlock said with an aggrieved sigh, though he did obediently take a step backwards. "I am trying to figure out who is responsible for - "

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Forester interrupted. "There will be time for that soon enough. But I think you'll agree that Molly doesn't need a private detective - "

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected automatically.

" - consulting detective," Mrs. Forester, continued smoothly. "Not right now. Right now she needs her boyfriend - "

"I am not her boyfriend."

"Her friend, then." It was Mrs. Forester's turn to sound aggrieved. "She needs comforting and a bit of sympathy…and biscuits, lots of biscuits. I'll provide the biscuits, but the rest of it is up to you."

Sherlock frowned down at the tiny woman. "I don't think - "

"Comfort, Mr. Holmes. And sympathy," Mrs. Forester repeated firmly. "I'll get the biscuits." She turned toward the cupboard, her slippered feet chuffing against the linoleum.

Sherlock blinked down at Molly for a long moment. Finally, he began, "I am…very sorry for your loss, Molly." He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, then reached out a tentative hand to touch her on the shoulder. "Perhaps, if you had changed the locks when I suggested it -"

"Mr. Holmes!"

His head snapped up at the reproach in the Mrs. Forester's voice. "What is it? What have I done now?"

"Comfort!" She cried, looking up at him in disbelief. "Sympathy!" She shook the packet of biscuits at him. "I swear, you haven't the sense that God gave an ox!" With a cutting glare, she elbowed him out of the way and sat down next to Molly, patting her arm in a motherly fashion. "You poor dear. You've been through so much tonight." She wrapped her in a flower-scented hug, adding, "Don't let this useless cock make you feel guilty. It wasn't your fault."

Sherlock drew back with an offended gasp.

Despite herself, Molly chuckled. Siting back, she managed to give Mrs. Forester a watery smile, wiping fresh tears away with the back of her hand. "Thank you, Mrs. Forester. "For everything." She let out a shaky breath. "He's right though. It was my fault. He told me how easy it would be for someone to break in. If I had gotten the locks changed - " Her face started to crumple again.

"Then they would have gotten in some other way." Mrs. Forester insisted, seizing Molly's hand in her own. She glared up at Sherlock through narrowed eyes, daring him to contradict her.

He coughed. "Actually, I believe Mrs. Forester is right," he said. "About that, anyway." The older woman cocked an eyebrow at him, and he went on quickly. "This wasn't a typical break-in. It was meant to send a message. And you weren't targeted at random. This was personal. Whoever did this wouldn't have let a locked door stop them. They'd have found another way, or possibly done something even worse." He shook his head. "No, it wasn't your fault Molly. It was mine. I am sorry."

Molly looked up at him and noticed for the first time the lines of grief that were etched into his face. "What are you talking about? How is it your - " She trailed off and then went on in a small voice. "Oh. I see. Of course. You think this is because of your case."

He nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I do. I don't know why they would target you specifically, unless it's just to let me know they're aware of your association with me. Maybe it's a warning. Maybe it's a threat. Maybe they're just playing games and it means nothing." He pushed his hands through his hair and turned in a brief circle, suddenly agitated. "I don't know. I just don't know!" His voice rose and then he stopped and took a deep breath, closing his eyes until he had composed himself. "It doesn't matter why they did it," he went on when he'd regained his equanimity. He knelt next to her chair and took her hands in his own, chafing her cold fingers with his thumbs. "What matters is that you lost Toby and your home was violated, and for that I am sorry."

She sniffled and nodded. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He grimaced and got to his feet. "No. Don't thank me. Not yet. Not until I find the person responsible." He started to turn away and then stopped. "Molly," he said after a moment. "I am very sorry about Toby. I… liked him."

"Molly managed a wan smile. "No you didn't. You hate cats."

"I do hate cats," he agreed. His lips twitched upwards. "But Toby and I had an understanding." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm going to miss him too."

Molly felt absurdly awkward standing outside her own front door while the crime-scene unit completed their sweep of her flat. Detective Inspector Lestrade spoke occasionally to the techs as they passed back and forth, but for the most part, he remained firmly attached to her side. He was there on behalf of Scotland Yard, but, Molly suspected, more at Sherlock's particular request than out of necessity. A home invasion investigation would have been well under his pay-grade otherwise. She appreciated the presence of a familiar face, but it did make the situation seem all the more surreal.

The techs were being exceptionally thorough. They examined every corner and cupboard, but so far, nothing probative had turned up. Whoever had committed this atrocity had been very careful to leave no trace of themselves behind. They were good. They were experienced.

Molly shivered.

"You going to be alright?" Greg asked. His handsome face was creased with concern.

She managed to approximate a smile in his direction. "I think so. It's just been such a long day, and - " Her smile wobbled and Greg reached for her, looping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her to his side.

"Don't you worry about anything," he said with certainty. "We're going to find this son of a bitch, and he's going to get put away for a good long time."

Sherlock emerged from the flat with a suitcase in each hand and an overnight bag hooked over one shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Greg's arm across Molly's shoulders, but he refrained from commenting.

"What's all that?" Molly asked when she saw the number of bags he was carrying. "I just needed a few things - "

"You're moving to Baker Street until this is over," Sherlock announced. He held out one of the suitcases, and Greg accepted it automatically.

Despite the trauma of the day, Sherlock's highhandedness still rankled. Molly shook her head and moved out from under Greg's arm. "I don't need to move in with you, Sherlock," she said. "I just need a place to stay for a few days until my flat gets cleared and…and cleaned." She swallowed hard and pushed past the mental image of what her bedroom had looked like the last time she had seen it.

"Molly - " Sherlock began, but the impatient forbearance on his face was more than she could stand right now.

"No. I don't need you to decide what's best for me. This is my home. I am not going to let them chase me out of my own home." She crossed her arms. It felt good to exhibit some control over the situation. She didn't have to let this happen.

Sherlock's frowned. "But that's absurd. They killed your cat. They could have killed you, too."

"But they didn't, did they? They could have come in when I was at home asleep, but they didn't. They came while I was at work. You said yourself that they could have done worse, but they didn't!"

"Maybe they will next time," Sherlock said. He was glowering down at her now with a face like a storm cloud, but she stood her ground stubbornly.

"Maybe they'll try," she said. "But they could just as easily find me at Baker Street. Have you even noticed how often people just wander into your flat?"

"You're being unreasonable," he said. "I am trying to protect you."

"I don't need protection."

"Of course you do. Don't be stupid!"

"Stupid?" Molly gave him an incredulous look. "Because I don't want to do something you've decided I ought to do?" She snorted. "I've never heard such arrogant, over-bearing - "

Sherlock dropped her bags and threw his hands up. "Of all the foolish, delusional - "

" - autocratic, downright bossy if we're being honest - "

" - imprudent, reckless, and I hardly need to say idiotic - "

" - just because you're Mr. knows-it-all Sherlock Holmes and - "

"Children!" Greg bellowed. "That's enough!"

Sherlock and Molly stopped shouting at each other and looked up in surprise.

Standing just inside the door of the flat, half a dozen Scotland Yard crime-scene techs watched them in wide-eyed fascination.

Sherlock swiftly regained his usual aplomb. "Don't you have some work you could be doing?" he growled. The techs scattered like pigeons, all talking at once and tripping over one another in their haste to get out from underneath that gimlet glare.

Molly flushed and buried her face in her hands. And here she had been thinking this night couldn't possibly get any worse. Why was she always wrong about that?

Though the more reasonable part of her mind knew that the sensation was temporary, she still couldn't help feeling as though nothing was ever going to be the same after this. Her home wasn't the safe haven she'd always assumed it to be. In one shocking instant, her comfortable, orderly existence had been thrown into violent disarray. She had been victimized. She was hurt and angry, of course. But she also felt like some soft, pitiful creature that has suddenly had its shelter stripped away and been left squeaking out in the open - tender, vulnerable… and terrified.

"Please."

Molly jerked in surprise when Sherlock took her hands and pried them gently away from her face.

"I know you don't need my protection," he said softly. He reached up and brushed her disheveled hair away from her face, pausing to let his hand linger against her cheek. "But I need to protect you."

His face was pale but composed, his hand warm on her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Greg gawping at them and trying not to be obvious about it.

"Please," he repeated. "If you won't do it for your own sake. Do it for mine. I can't focus on this case if I am too busy worrying about your well-being."

"But Sherlock - ," she began. She knew damn well there was no chance of his getting distracted from anything unless he chose to be, but she could appreciate the sentiment behind the words. "Your flat's not nearly big enough for four people. And with Aline there - "

"John's moving out," he said, straightening abruptly.

She blinked at him. "What? Since when?"

"He's been moving out for the past month, and hoping I wouldn't notice." Sherlock snorted. "As if he could ever hope to pull that off."

Molly looked at him uncertainly. "And you're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry?" he said. "Even I am aware that married couples tend to live together. Whether he moves out now or two months from now, the end result will be the same." He shrugged. "So, I'll simply let him off the hook and then Aline can have his room. You, I would assume, will continue to sleep in mine." Taking the subject as settled, he adjusted his scarf and reached for Molly's suitcase again. "You should close your mouth before flies get in, George," he said, and then turned to the Detective Inspector. "And we'll be needing a lift back to Baker Street, if you'd be so kind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every once in a great while, having a 'whenever I have something to post' schedule works out to the benefit of my staunch and steadfast readers. See what happens when my kids go back to school? Two chapters in less than a week! You lucky, lucky readers, you! Hopefully this one will ease the sting of our sweet Toby's passing in the previous chapter. I really *am* sorry about that, by the way. For one thing, I liked him. For another, I had no idea that snuffing him was such a common Sherlock fic trope. And here I thought I was being all edgy...
> 
> Thank you so much for the kind reviews and PMs. I would keep writing even if it was just a one way street, but hearing back from y'all and knowing that you are still reading along and enjoying the story, well, it warms the cockles of my warped and cynical little heart. It is the only form of payment a fanfic writer ever hopes to receive, and I feel amazingly well rewarded.
> 
> My usual effusive thanks to Katie F for her super-human beta powers. I wish y'all could read one of her mark ups because they are *gold*. I get the usual assistance with comma placement, dangling participles, subject-verb agreement, and lots of other grammatical sounding rules that I have never managed to sort out. But I also get helpful commentary such as 'GRAMMA POWERS', '#Whedoning', 'Helloooooo Detective Papa Lesexygrey', and my personal favorite from this chapter 'I want to crease that handsome face alright. Crease it good.'


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

There were few things, in Sherlock's estimation, that were more appalling than the specious solicitude displayed by the average commercial flight attendant. It was one of the many reasons why he preferred to book with a charter firm whenever possible - that and the not inconsequential improvement in available legroom.

It couldn't be helped this time, however, so he was bearing up as well as he could.

Which, if he were being entirely honest, even he would admit wasn't all that well.

Why did she insist on smiling so much?

"I need neither a pillow, a blanket, a beverage of any kind of, nor a packet of 'snack mix'." He glowered up at the overly perky brunette that had been tormenting him for the past nine hours. "What I require,  _Pam,_ is five uninterrupted minutes that I might be permitted to devote to my reading."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Pam said, chuckling in misguided appreciation for what she plainly mistook as evidence of his wit. "Would you like me to show you how to access the plane's in-flight entertainment system?"

Sherlock wondered if telling her that the married pilot she was having an affair with was also having an affair with yet another woman would be enough to deflect her attention. Then he imagined the disapproving look Molly would give him, and instead he merely gritted his teeth. "I am quite sure."

"Alrighty!" Pam chirped. "Well, you just let me know if there's anything else I can do for you, sweetie." She gave him a slow wink and then sashayed away up the aisle, swinging her narrow hips as she went.

"Your reputation precedes you," Aline commented drily without looking up from the reports she was reading over. " _Tu es u_ _ne c_ _é_ _l_ _é_ _brit_ _é_ _internationale, mon ami_ _._ _"_

He made a disgruntled noise and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "How much longer is this wretched flight supposed to last, anyway? We've been suspended over the Atlantic for at least a week and a half."

"Anxious to return  _a ton amour,_ are you?"

Hearing the barely-suppressed amusement in her voice, he scowled down at her. "Don't try to be entertaining, Aline. It doesn't suit you."

She chuckled and flicked a smile up at him. "Oh, Sherlock. You need not be offended. I think your dalliance with the sweet Miss Hooper is quite charming."

" _Charming_ ," he said with a sneer, but she merely smiled and went back to her reading.

Sherlock shuffled pages, tapping them into a neat stack in the center of his tray table. He had read over the documents several times already, of course, but he still needed to parse the information, to break it down into usable bits, organize, collate and assimilate it with the rest of the case files in order to make sense of it. This trip had not been as productive as he and Aline had been hoping it might be, but he had managed to put together some new information regarding the order of the abductions, and he would need to update the timeline accordingly.

He repositioned his cramped legs under the seat in front of him and then leaned back and closed his eyes.

The desire for knowledge, for concrete data and unassailable facts, was always the driving force behind anything he did. He was always observing, always calculating. The tiniest details, which went unnoticed by the common herd, stood out to him as though they were under spotlights. He could merely glance at his fellow travelers and know them as well as if they had told him their life story - better in fact, since people tended to lie when they were confronted directly. The woman in the seat across the aisle, for instance, wouldn't be likely to own up to the fact that she had met up with an ex-lover during her business trip - wedding band, conference ID badge, smudged lipstick. Nor would the middle-aged man two rows up ever admit that he had visited one of the more specifically skilled  _garotas_  at Centaurus during his visit to Rio - telltale red ligature marks around the base of his wrists, self-conscious tugging at his shirt cuffs, trying to cover the marks. Sherlock wasn't trying to notice any of those things. They were simply  _there_. He couldn't force himself to  _not_ notice any more than he could force himself to stop breathing. He noticed. That was what he did. All of those things were irrelevant and unimportant, of course, but he catalogued them nonetheless. There  _was_  other information that he desired at present, but did not have access to. He would willingly give up the entire nine days worth of vague recollections, unreliable eye-witness accounts and blurry surveillance photographs just to know one simple thing -

Where was Molly right this moment?

Her whereabouts were important because he would be able to picture her much more clearly if he could envision her in her surroundings. If she was at the morgue, she would be wearing her lab coat, her hair pulled back, away from her face, exposing her neck. If she were at home - at Baker Street, that is - it would be harder to pinpoint. She might still be dressed for work in trousers and a shirt, reading a journal over her dinner. Or she might be lounging on the sofa with a cup of tea, her hair wet from the bath, his blue dressing-gown sticking to her damp skin…

He sat up abruptly and banged his knee sharply on the tray table.

"Are you alright?" Aline asked.

"Hmmm," he replied without meeting her eye. He twisted in his seat. "I must have dozed off."

"Oh, certainly." Aline nodded gravely, but he could see the amusement dancing in her eyes.

Choosing to ignore her lest their conversation devolve into another bout of relentless teasing - which he could more than do without, thank you - he went back to examining the stack of police reports they had acquired in Montes Claros. He did not wish to discuss Molly with Aline at present.

They had been gone for nine days and, lamentably, there had been little in the way of communication during that time. A handful of texts and two brief, staticky phone calls had been the entirety of his contact with Molly since his departure. It couldn't have been helped, of course. Most of their destinations had been remote - tiny villages and encampments that invariably seemed smaller than he remembered from his previous sojourn. Basing their course on her own carefully-acquired intelligence, Aline had led the way - chasing leads from Meknès, Morocco to Mansa Konko in Gambia, from Iquitos, Peru to Temuco, Chile and then off to Montes Claros in Brazil before they had finally booked a last-minute flight home from Rio.

And so little to show for it. Two other disappearances had been identified - Kamal Hassine in Rabat and Diego Rosado in Chimbote, but the lack of useful information in both cases was nothing short of infuriating. He had sent a message to Mycroft through Interpol, alerting him to be on the lookout for either men and requesting notification the moment the bodies were identified. He and Aline had, at least, managed to locate a handful of his contacts - still alive and on high alert - which had both reassured and unsettled him.

If he could find them, so could someone else.

The best thing he could do for them now was to get home, compile the data and solve the damn case. So that is what he was going to do.

Right after he went home and buried his face in Molly's hair.

He would never admit it to Aline - or to anyone else, for that matter. What difference could it make to them? But to himself, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he acknowledged that he had missed Molly. No, even that was being disingenuous, which, within the boundaries of his own mind, seemed borderline pathological. He did not miss her. No. Ever the addict, he craved her.

His fingers itched to touch her skin, to sink into the fragrant curtain of her hair, to angle her head back so that he could taste her lips. He wanted to embrace her, to wrap her in his arms and lose himself in her body. He wanted to touch all of her, to taste all of her, to drown himself in the sound of her soft cries and then he wanted to crush her to him while the world went white around him.

But even more than the warm acceptance he knew he would find when he took her body, Sherlock wanted  _her_. More even than touching her, he wanted to see her and hear her voice. He wanted those gentle brown eyes to smile up at him and remind him that he was more than an overactive brain in the body of an irredeemable arsehole. In her presence, he was a man, and worthy of the affection and devotion of an extraordinary woman.

It had been six weeks since the home invasion that had taken away both her beloved Toby and her sense of security. He had not expected her to recover quickly from the ordeal, and she hadn't. Nightmares full of death and blood and grasping hands had pulled her from her sleep for many days afterward. But she had refused to let it daunt her. Though she still paled when she had to be away from the flat after the sun went down, she stuck out her pointed chin and refused to let her fears identify her.

She had even been the determining factor in his decision to take this trip. Aline had suggested it when the trail went frustratingly cold in London, offering up whatever aid her own network could provide. John had tried to convince him not to even mention it to Molly so soon after the break-in, but the opportunity to examine locations and interview witnesses personally had been too compelling to resist. Molly had readily agreed that he should take the trip and had even wished them both luck. John had still seemed disgusted with him, which he thought was hardly fair. If Molly didn't object, why should John?

Sherlock was fidgety and short-tempered by the time the taxi pulled up to the pavement in front of Baker Street. He threw a handful of bills at Aline to figure out and was halfway out of the car before it had stopped moving completely. He heard the driver shouting something about his bag, but he had already unlocked the door and was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He trusted that Aline would bring the bag. And if she didn't, the hell with it.

If he didn't literally bust through the front door, neither still did he stroll in. And it nearly got him killed.

The door bounced off the wall with a resounding bang. Molly let out a shriek. And in half a heartbeat there was a gun leveled in very close proximity to his left temple. He froze.

"Hello, John," he said calmly.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John pulled the gun away at once, pointing it at the floor. "What the absolute hell!"

Mary and Molly were sitting side by side on the sofa, clutching each other in an astonishingly Victorian fashion. They were both wide-eyed and pale, but looked otherwise well enough.

He blinked curiously around the room at them. "Is there a problem?"

John gave a laugh that Sherlock had come to realize was not at all indicative of humour.

"Is there a problem, he asks," John said with a snort. "I nearly shot you, you moron."

"Yes, I did notice that, actually. Thank you for resisting the impulse."

"The night's not over yet," John growled, but he was holstering the gun.

Aline's head appeared from around the half open door. " _Mon Dieu,_ " she said on seeing the pistol. "I have missed something, I think."

"Not at all," Sherlock said, stepping smoothly aside to give her room. "I have entered my own flat and  _not_ gotten shot. My successful streak continues."

"I thought you were - I don't know - an attacker, or something," John said with a self-conscious shrug. He turned to the two women on the sofa, whose level of alarm had not yet receded sufficiently for them to notice that they were still clinging to one another. "Alright?"

Mary gave Molly a quickly assessing once over and then nodded, patting Molly's arm reassuringly. "Yeah, of course we are. We're fine."

Molly had managed to collect herself and gave a sheepish laugh. "Sorry, Sherlock," she said, pushing to her feet. She crossed the room and put her arms around him. "Not quite the homecoming you were expecting, was it?"

"Not quite," he agreed, returning her embrace automatically.

"Maybe if we had known you were  _coming_ home," John grumbled. "Perhaps a little bit of notice next time, hmm?"

"Hmm," Sherlock responded, but he was barely listening. Molly's slight heat seeped into him, warming him far more thoroughly than the laws of thermodynamics would seem to account for. Her familiar scent rose up around him. He tightened his arms and drew in a deep breath. She smelled of shampoo and hand cream as well as her own clean, natural scent. He could also detect the barest hint of antiseptic and lemon that still clung to her after a day in the morgue. He felt his body tighten and he pulled away abruptly, feeling flushed.

"So how did it go?" Mary asked. She had gone to John's side and hooked her arm through his. "Did you find out anything new?"

" _Oui_ ," Aline said. She dropped Sherlock's bag at his feet and slung her own across her shoulder. "We have some new information on our the timeline, and several eyewitness accounts."

Sherlock snorted. "For all the good those always are." A belated thought occurred to him. He frowned at John. "Why are you here? Didn't you move out?"

"Yes," John said, narrowing his eyes. "I did. But in case it's slipped your mind, someone broke into your girl- into Molly's flat a few weeks ago, and delivered a very convincing message. Mary and I thought it might be best if she didn't spend all of her time alone while you were off God knows where."

"We were following up on leads in the case." Sherlock's frown deepened. "As I told you before we left."

"Yeah, and what I told  _you_  before you left was - "

"It's alright, John," Molly broke in. She reached for Sherlock's coat and he let her pull it from his shoulders. "John and Mary have been keeping me company in the evenings while you were away. I told them they didn't have to, but I'm starting to suspect that they just enjoy being fussy."

"We do, a bit," Mary agreed. She began gathering the tea things together and nudged John until he stopped glowering at Sherlock and turned to help her.

Aline followed them into the kitchen, no doubt hoping for leftovers.

Over the sound of water running and dishes clinking together, Sherlock heard John ask Aline about the trip. He hesitated until he heard Mary offer to make tea and it became clear that all of them would be nattering away in the kitchen for at least the next few minutes.

Molly had just finished hanging his coat by the door. He was across the room in two long strides. And then he took her by the shoulder and spun her to face him. He saw the startled expression on her face for a split second before his lips came down on hers.

She squeaked in surprise, but recovered quickly, returning his kiss with enthusiasm. He felt her arms come up, her fingers tightening on his back, and realized that he had thrown her off balance. Without releasing her mouth, he straightened so that she could regain her footing.

God, what was this feeling? This  _relief_? It was a sensation of coming home like he had not experienced even after being away from England for two long years. How could a mere nine days of absence result in this perception of having recovered something that wasn't even lost?

He made a low noise in the back of his throat and pushed the questions aside as he pushed Molly firmly against the wall.

She was sweet and soft, her lips parted and welcoming as he swept his tongue into her mouth. His hands were on her face and tangling in her hair. Her breath was warm, mixing with his own. He pressed his body into her and reveled in the way she pressed back, moulding her curves to him.

From the kitchen, John gave a bark of laughter.

Sherlock jerked and stood abruptly. Without his weight keeping her upright, Molly staggered sideways, pinwheeling slightly to keep from falling over. She blinked up at him, her eyes dazed, her lips reddened. And then her expression cleared and color crept into her cheeks.

"Oh!" She glanced toward the kitchen and covered her mouth with her fingers. But they were still alone for now.

Without a word, Sherlock grabbed her free hand and tugged her behind him, skirting behind the kitchen and heading determinedly toward his bedroom.

"Sherlock - " Molly began as he closed the door behind them.

But he was in no mood for talking just yet.

He turned and shoved her hard up against the wall, and then followed her body with his own, pinning her there with his length, with his mouth, with his hands.

It had only been nine days since he had last seen her. Nine days since he had held her. It was absurd that his hands shook as he touched her, that his breath came short and his body vibrated with need _._ His kisses were fervid, his fingers clutching, his breath coming short. He wanted her. He craved her.

"Sherlock!" Molly gasped when he broke away from her mouth to trail his lips down her throat.

"Hush," he managed to reply before returning his attention to the tender skin at the curve of her neck.

His questing fingers found the edge of her shirt, and he rucked it up impatiently. When his hands found the smooth warmth of her belly, he let out a deep, shuddering breath.

There was pressure building inside him - a heat that uncurled from his chest and radiated out until he was sure his fingertips must burn where they touched her skin. But she clung to him still, her breath coming in gasps as he touched and tasted her to his heart's content.

Her head was tilted back and turned slightly away as though she was offering up the elegant line of her neck to him. The rapid thrum of her carotid pulse was beating in her throat, and Sherlock felt the now familiar surge of satisfaction at the knowledge that he could bring her to this state - that the parted lips, flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes were all evidence of her arousal, of her desire for him _._

Visceral need boiled over then and Sherlock thought briefly of the mindless desperation he had once felt for the drugs.  _Ever the addict._ And then his palm was against her belly, agile fingers sliding under the waist of her trousers and into the wetness between her legs.

Molly moaned and moved against him, tilting her hips forward in instinctive welcome, encouraging his touch. He shuddered at the rush of pleasure that ran through him in a wave. It was a bliss more pure than any he had ever experienced at the sting of a needle.

Now. He needed her  _now._  He couldn't wait any longer.

He pulled his hand free of her trousers, ignoring her gentle sound of protest. Her scent clung to his fingers, perfuming the the air around them. His nostrils flared and the primal desire to take her - to have her - surged through him.

If he had been the same man that had left England behind, or even the one that had first returned home, the unfettered, roiling chaos he felt right now would have terrified him. He would have shut down and pulled away. He would have banged out the door, angry at Molly for provoking him and furious with himself for letting it happen. He would have run away and never looked back.

But he wasn't that man anymore, and he didn't pull away. Instead, he let the feeling roll over him, let it have free reign. He indulged - reveled _-_ in the pure, animalistic nature of sexual lust.

Now. It had to be  _now._

Sherlock was not gentle as he reached out and yanked Molly's trousers down over her hips. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but she merely braced herself and made no other protest.

It had been too long. Nine days was far too long.

He skimmed her trousers down over her thighs and then pushed impatiently at her knickers.

Molly stepped out of her puddled clothing while he freed himself in a few quick jerks. He was too impatient to do more than push his pants aside before he was nudging her knees apart. He positioned himself between her thighs finally and thrust into her, hard and fast. She cried out at the abrupt intrusion, her fingers digging painfully into his forearms. He grimaced and covered her mouth with his hand.

"Shhhh," he said in a hoarse whisper. His lips were touching the shell of her ear, his breath hot and moist on her skin. The indistinct murmur of voices still carried down the hall from the kitchen. He tutted softly. "You don't want them to hear, do you?" He waited until she gave a brief shake of her head before he thrust into her again, but he did not remove his hand.

He was slow and deliberate, his movements methodical and fierce. He drove into her body with sharp strokes that forced her up on her tiptoes. His breathing was laboured, but he stayed otherwise silent, focused.

Molly dropped her arms, bracing herself against the wall at her back as she fought to maintain her balance.

He took it away from her then, using his free hand to reach down and pull her knee up to his waist. She was forced to reach for him, her hands fisting in his shirt, clutching at him to keep from falling. She made a sound of distress that was muffled by the hand across her mouth.

"Trust me, Molly," he murmured into her ear, barely a whisper. "I've got you."

Her body was tense, her muscles quivering. And then, after the briefest hesitation, he felt her relax. Tentatively, she shifted, bringing her other leg up so that she could wrap them both around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back. Her weight rested entirely on him now. She was pinned to the wall, supported only by the pressure of his body, dependent on him to keep her safe.

He made a low sound of satisfaction and, with one last thrust, came hard, his body shaking as he pulsed inside her.

He stood for a long moment after the spasms passed, breathing heavily, leaning into her so that she stayed braced against the wall while he recovered.

Belatedly, he remembered to remove his hand from across her mouth.

There was no sound but their laboured breathing. And then Molly drew in a breath to speak.

"Sherlock?"

"Hush," he said again. Still inside her, he cupped his hands under her bottom and turned toward the bed. "I'm not done with you yet."

Later that night, Sherlock lay curled around Molly's slumbering form, frowning thoughtfully into the darkness. His body was sated, but he was still far too keyed up for sleep.

What  _was_  this feeling? Was it merely a new form of addiction? Had he given up his dependence on the artificial oblivion of cocaine only to replace it with an even more dangerous weakness for Molly Hooper?

Molly loved him.

She had never said it. He doubted that she ever would. She knew him too well to ever attempt that conversation. But he knew it nonetheless. He knew that she loved him because he observed. The evidence was all there, laid out plainly for anyone to see. He recognized the signs even if he didn't understand the sentiment. He knew what it meant that her eyes lit up every time he walked into the mortuary at Barts, knew why she insisted on feeding him even when he was in the middle of a case, why she shared her bed and her life with him, why she cared. When her hands caressed his face, or combed through his hair, or feathered gently over the scars on his back, he could hear her 'I love you' as eloquently as if she had shouted the words aloud.

He felt an odd stab in his gut and realized with an unpleasant jolt that what he was feeling was remorse _._

No one cared if Sherlock used cases to keep his mind engaged and his sanity intact. Neither his clients nor the Yard had any reason to feel slighted if he poured himself into an investigation for entirely selfish reasons. Even when he had turned to drugs to dull the chaos of his overactive mind, it hadn't been healthy, but neither had there been overt harm done to anyone other than himself.

Next to him, Molly shifted and sighed in her sleep, her breath a warm exhalation against his chest.

He looked down at her and his frown deepened.

He could hurt Molly.

By clinging to her for selfish reasons, by keeping himself as a fixture in her life, he could hurt her badly. Sweet, shy, captivating Molly, who loved the same way a star gave light - wholeheartedly and with the entirety of her being. He would destroy her slowly. It might take years, but eventually she would realize and then finally accept that he was incapable of reciprocating her feelings. And then the love that shone out of her would begin to diminish and die.

And what of the marriage and children he knew that she hoped to have one day? Would she thank him for taking that possibility away from her? She was only thirty-two. There was still plenty of time left for her to have everything she wanted. Just not with him. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from her face. The thought left him feeling hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I freely admit I rushed to get this posted today (9/17) because it is the actual one year anniversary of the day I originally started posting this monstrosity. Like WOW. So in honour of this auspicious date you all get both porn AND angst! Something for everyone! Also, this chapter is a BEAST, so congratulations if you made it all the way through!
> 
> Thank you, thank you to all of you for reading! I wish I could convey to you what an amazing experience this has been for me. I set out to write this story for a variety of reasons, but the response I have gotten from you guys has made it one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. I say it at the end of every chapter, but please know that it is heartfelt each time - Thank you!
> 
> All the usual hugs and kisses to Kate F for being her betalicious self and also for the half hour turn around time I required in order to get it uploaded before midnight... Even if she did make me take out almost all of my italics.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

Diego Rosado's body was found floating in the Thames three days after Sherlock and Aline returned from their trip abroad.

This newest death seemed to hit Sherlock particularly hard. He was even more short-tempered and irritable than usual. He refused most of Molly's attempts to feed him, and wasn't sleeping at all, as far as she could tell. For the past week, she had been going to bed alone, then waking in the morning to a silent room and cold sheets. More often than not, she found him in the sitting room, poring over notes or frowning at the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. The wallpaper behind the sofa was almost entirely obscured now. Crime-scene photos, autopsy reports and missing-persons bulletins were tacked everywhere, with Sherlock's own scribbled post-it notes tacked among the chaos in little pops of yellow.

It was hard to gauge how much Rosado's murder affected Aline. When Lestrade came to deliver the news, she had simply nodded in understanding and then turned back to her research with no change of expression whatsoever.

Molly ached for both of them. Sherlock would never admit to feeling something as pointless as guilt, though she knew that each death weighed on him. And she was sure Aline must be disturbed by her brush with these monsters, no matter how little she might show it. Both of them were stoic and self-controlled by nature. They kept their emotions on a tight leash, but that didn't mean they didn't have them.

Not being blessed - or perhaps burdened - with the ability to repress her emotions so thoroughly, Molly did enough feeling for all three of them. She tried not to fret and hover, knowing exactly how little either of them would appreciate it, but she couldn't help but worry.

She woke once in the small hours of the night, confused and disoriented by the momentary panic that came with being catapulted unexpectedly from a deep sleep. She had bolted upright in bed, the surge of adrenaline making her go cold and clammy. Her feet were on the floor and she was already reaching for her dressing gown before her sleep-addled brain finally identified what had woken her.

It was music.

The rapid pounding of her heart was beginning to slow, the fight or flight response easing as her mind accepted that she wasn't in any immediate danger.

Squinting, she checked the clock by the bed. It was 3:46 in the morning. She grimaced. Someone else might be in immediate danger when she got her hands on them. She had work in the morning.

Shivering in the predawn chill, Molly wrapped herself tightly in her dressing gown. Her feet were cold against the bare floor, but she didn't bother to stop and feel around in the dark for her slippers. Instead, she padded barefoot out of the bedroom, and then crept cautiously down the hallway.

Sherlock was playing his violin.

The lights in the room were dimmed, but not extinguished. Aline lay curled up on the sofa like a quotation mark, her dark hair obscuring her face. She appeared to be asleep, altogether unperturbed by the soft notes coming from the other side of the room. Sherlock was standing in his usual spot by the window, facing outward as though he were playing to an audience on the street below. Molly knew without having to look that his eyes were closed, his expression intent as he turned some problem over and over in his head.

She always enjoyed watching him play. He seemed less tense when he held the violin in his hands. His body, which he usually held so rigidly, was looser then, more at ease. It was one of the very few times that Molly felt as though he were allowing himself to relax. The muscles shifted beneath his shirt with a fluid elegance as he played. Tall and imposing as he was, and with a commanding personality that filled whatever space he occupied, she forgot sometimes how graceful he could be.

The tune was an unfamiliar one. She suspected it was one of his own compositions. It was quite unlike anything else she had heard him play before, however. It was sweet and delicate, the notes rising and falling like a bird flying for the sheer joy of it.

Molly felt moisture on her cheeks and reached up to brush away tears. She wouldn't have been able to explain why the music made her cry, nor why she chose to linger in the the hallway with her fingers curled into her palms rather than going to him. It just seemed too personal a moment for her to intrude upon. So, when Sherlock finally lowered his bow and stood quietly gazing out the window into the darkest part of the night, she eased backwards and then tiptoed silently back to bed, trying to ignore the tightness across her chest.

Her own pain had grown more bearable over the weeks since Toby's death. The nightmares weren't coming as frequently, and she no longer jumped at the sight of her own shadow. She wasn't certain she would ever get over the experience entirely, but it was a start. Things were getting better. She knew she would feel normal again eventually. For now, she was just thankful that the condolences had finally stopped. Everyone said over and over how lucky it was that she hadn't been home at the time of the break-in, how fortunate that the criminals had 'only' gotten her cat. And it wasn't that she didn't appreciate the thought behind the words She knew that they were kindly meant. They were simply grateful that she hadn't been hurt.

They didn't understand. It had been just her and Toby for such a long time. He might have been 'only' a cat, but he'd also been part of her family, and she had lost him in the most horrific way possible. 'Lucky' was quite possibly the last way she would describe herself.

But she was getting better. She was adjusting.

The living arrangements were taking some getting used to, but even that was starting to feel less awkward. Baker Street felt incomplete without John's genial company, but Mary came around frequently, and John made it a point to drop in almost daily. Molly was still a bit stunned that she was, for all intents and purposes, living with Sherlock, but she was careful to keep reminding herself that it was a temporary housing situation. He didn't seem bothered by her constant presence, but he didn't suggest that she unpack her things, either. Aline, for her part, never seemed fazed by any change in circumstances, and had taken up residency in John's old room without comment.

Molly wasn't sure she would ever be entirely comfortable living in the same flat with Aline. It wasn't that Aline was unpleasant or at all difficult to live with. It was quite the opposite, in fact. Aline was quiet and self-contained. She kept up after herself, which was a lot more than Molly could say for Sherlock, especially now that John was gone. Given what the girl had gone through in her life, Molly wasn't surprised to find that she tended towards reserve. Aline spoke rarely, and even then, almost exclusively to Sherlock. The two of them seemed attuned to one another. They worked well together. Molly wouldn't say she was jealous of their relationship, but she admitted, if only to herself, that she felt very much like an outsider when Sherlock and Aline were collaborating on the case. She went about her usual day - waking, going to work, coming back to Baker Street and fixing a dinner that she usually ate alone, orbiting around Sherlock and Aline like a distant and worried little moon. This case couldn't be over soon enough, for all of their sakes.

Molly woke up late on her day off. The sun was already shining merrily through the curtains, highlighting the undisturbed pillow next to her. She laid her hand across it, allowing herself to wish for a moment that things were different.

She emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later with her teeth brushed and her dressing gown tied around her waist. The scent of fresh coffee led her into the kitchen. The flat was entirely silent but for the gentle ticking of the element on the coffeepot.

She grabbed her favorite mug from the dish drainer and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Sherlock?" she called.

"He is not here," came Aline's musical accent from the direction of the sitting room.

Molly stuck her head around the corner. "Did he say when he would be back?"

Aline was laying sideways on the sofa with a file folder open in her lap. She was dressed, but her hair still hung in damp tendrils that she had tucked behind her ears. "No, I am afraid not," she replied with an apologetic shrug. "He was going to see the policeman, I believe."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Molly asked. She felt a stab of disappointment. Sherlock hadn't mentioned that he was planning to go out this morning. She had more than half hoped that they would be spending some time together today, even if it was nothing more than sharing tea across another report from Interpol.

Aline shrugged again. Her attention was already focused back on the pages in front of her. "I assume so. I did not ask."

"Oh," Molly replied. She wasn't sure what else to say. In lieu of further conversation, she decided to make breakfast. Toast seemed reasonable.

She dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and pushed the handle down. Then she turned to the mess on the island and starting stacking dishes in the sink. As always, her default was to focus on something she had control over rather than the things she didn't. It wasn't a glamorous coping mechanism, but it seemed like a healthier alternative to substance abuse, or, for that matter, crime solving.

The toaster popped up. Molly dried her hands and reached for the butter.

She was suddenly at loose ends for the day, and the realization left her feeling oddly bereft. If she had still been living in her own flat, it would have been an unexpected gift - hours of free time that she could have employed in any way she so desired. She would have pulled out a book or watched mindless nonsense on the telly, sprawled out on her sofa while Toby made a constant pest of himself. But she wasn't living in her own flat. She was still a guest in Sherlock's. And even if she could have spent the afternoon doing nothing but reading or watching television, she wouldn't have, because this wasn't home and that level of casual comfort seemed unattainable.

Molly thought of Aline in the other room, lying draped across the furniture with her papers propped up on her chest. Of course it wasn't unattainable for  _her._  Aline seemed to have that enviable ability to adapt to whatever environment she found herself in without any apparent effort. She was rather like a chameleon that way.

It wasn't that Molly envied Aline. The girl's childhood had been a violent and unstable one, filled with constant threat and upheaval. She had described frantic, late-night knocks on the door that left her family scrambling for their things, then making off into the darkness with what little they could carry, hoping that they could stay one step ahead of the organization that hunted her father. Aline had recited the information dispassionately, shrugging off Molly's sympathies when she offered them. "My father chose to turn his back on the  _gang del la Brise de Mer,_ " Aline told her. "He knew it was a risk, but he wanted a different life for us. And perhaps if he had simply walked away, they might have let us be. But instead, he decided to testify against them. But then the judge discovered that my father had omitted information that would have implicated him, and he withdrew the offer of protection. We left Corsica immediately, of course, but they found us. They always found us."

The Cloutiers had lived on the run for seven years. Aline had been no more than ten when they were first forced to flee. And then James Moriarty had murdered her parents while she watched, just four days shy of her seventeenth birthday. She had learned to live on her on after that, scrambling to stay alive, promising herself every day that she would live to punish the man responsible for destroying her family.

No, Molly did not envy Aline, but she did admire her. She wished in many ways that she could be more like her - determined, canny and fearless. Aline had been victimized in ways that Molly couldn't even begin to imagine, but she would never let herself become a victim. She did not cower or weep at her misfortunes, and she certainly did not let them define her. Aline hardened her resolve, she fought back, she overcame.

"You do not have to work today?" Aline asked. Molly jumped and dropped her toast. She hadn't even heard her come into the kitchen.

Aline grimaced. "Sorry. I did not mean to startle you." She padded noiselessly across the room in her bare feet.

"No, it's alright." Molly said, waving off the apology. "I was miles away." She rescued the slice of toast from the floor - it had landed butter side down, of course - and tossed it in the bin.

Aline poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, watching as Molly scrubbed the greasy spot up from under the chair. "How is it with you and Sherlock?" she asked suddenly.

"Um," Molly replied, somewhat taken aback by the question.

"I apologize," Aline said, "if I have asked something inappropriate."

"Oh, uh - no, of course not," Molly spluttered, going red-faced. She gave the other woman a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting - "

Aline inclined her head. "Of course. I should not have been so abrupt. I was merely curious."

Molly exhaled an embarrassed laugh. "No, it's fine.  _We_ _'_ _re_  fine - me and Sherlock, I mean. We're fine. We're good."

"That is excellent," Aline said. She gave Molly a radiant smile. "You have been, um 'together' for some time, I think, yes?"

"Well, we've known each other for a long time," Molly agreed. She sat back in her seat, with her fingers splayed across her coffee mug. "But we haven't been…'together' for very long. Just a few months."

"I see," Aline said. "You will have to forgive me my curiosity, Molly. I wondered because I knew he had no one when we met before - when I knew him as Joseph, that is. But you seem quite close with him now, and I think that is wonderful."

She couldn't quite help the warm flush of pleasure that Aline's words caused. "Well, thank you. That's quite nice of you to say."

"Oh, you are most welcome," Aline said, smiling across the table at her. "I hope very much that it can last between you - at least for a while."

Aline's pleasant expression hadn't altered a bit, but Molly felt her own smile flicker. "For a while?" she said.

"Yes," Aline repeated, still smiling. "I mean, it is Sherlock, you know." She shrugged. "He is not likely to settle down with someone permanently, is he? He is so easily bored. But I think you are good for him. I think it is well that he has someone to take care of him."

Molly compressed her lips into a line. She felt cold despite the warm mug between her hands. "Yeah," she said weakly. "I guess I do that a bit."

Aline's smile faded. "I am sorry, Molly," she said. "I did not mean to upset you." She bit her lip unhappily. "Sherlock is a great man. It does you credit that he is attached to you for now. But, surely I do not say anything which surprises you? He is not a man to become someone's boyfriend or husband, is he?" She paused, but when Molly did not reply, she went on. "You want a husband one day, no? Children? You do not honestly see a future where Sherlock Holmes is a family man, married and dandling a baby on his knee, do you?" She knit her brows together and surveyed Molly across the table for a long moment.

"Sherlock Holmes does not  _love_ , Molly," she said finally. She spoke so bluntly that Molly winced as though she'd been slapped. "It's not that he does not love  _you._  It's the emotion itself which is anathema to him. He cannot love and still be who he is." Aline shook her head, her expression pained. "Perhaps he is capable of love and merely eschews it, but it makes no matter. Whether he is incapable of experiencing it or only unwilling, it amounts to the same thing. He cannot give you what you want. And in time, he will grow bored, and he will move on."

The entire conversation had lasted for less than three minutes, but Molly felt as though she'd just been beaten with a tire lever for at least an hour. It wasn't that she disagreed with any one thing in particular. Mostly, Aline's words were echoes of her own thoughts - the ones she most tried to ignore. But it was agonizing to have those thoughts laid out so baldly.  _There are none so blind as those who will not see,_  she thought miserably.

"I don't - " she said into the silence that took over. She swallowed hard. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Do?" Aline said. "Dear Molly, you do not need to do anything." She got up and came around to the other side of the table, seizing Molly's chilly hands in her own. "What have I said that makes you think you must do something?"

Molly looked up at her, bewildered. "But - "

"You love him, yes? And, as I have just been saying, it is good for him that he has you." She squeezed Molly's fingers almost painfully. "It is for no one but you to decide when, or if, things must change. If you are happy and he is happy, then you do not have to  _do_  anything. Carry on as you have been. Enjoy your time together." She smiled again and released Molly's fingers. "Just be on your guard, Molly. That is all I will say. Because if you love him, he can hurt you badly. And I do not want to see that happen to you."

Almost as if it had been scripted, Aline's final words were punctuated by the sound of feet coming up the stairs.

Sherlock was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how are we feeling about Aline now? *blinks innocently*
> 
> This chapter was a little bit different, I know, but it's going somewhere. I promise. We're heading into the final stretch now. Just a few chapters to go!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and an extra special huggle to those of you who take a moment to leave a comment. I adore getting to hear which parts y'all enjoy (or don't enjoy - sorry again about Toby), what your theories are, which way you think the story is going to go (some of y'all are *really* good at this) - just basically, I love hearing from you.
> 
> I am eternally grateful to Kate F for wielding her grammar hammer on each and every chapter of this beast, and for both me encouraging and talking me down off the ledge in turn. I'm not sure if I'd have gotten this far had it not been for all of her affectionate pestering and patented Care Bear Stare. You da best, Ginger Biscuit:)


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

There were fifteen names on the list.

He didn't need to keep a list, of course. He had long since memorized them all. The visual reminder wasn't necessary to keep him focused on the case, but he kept it with him nonetheless. It seemed like the least he could do for them.  _Mihail Puntjar, Awurama Ngosa,_ … he recited silently as he traced his fingers slowly down the page.  _Tom and L_ _é_ _a Claes, Ada Krupke,_  and so on until the newest addition,  _Diego Rosado._  Fifteen names on a piece of paper should be such an innocuous thing, and yet, it was as gruesome as if it were written in blood.

There had not, as of yet, been any word on the missing Kamal Hassine. His name would not be added to the list until he was found, whether dead or alive, but Sherlock's finger still ghosted over the sixteenth line as if the name already existed, just waiting to solidify onto the page in dark strokes of ink.

Sherlock felt a wave of revulsion and pushed away from the table, away from the file, away from the list. Little though the physical distance was likely to help his state of mind.

It was late, and he was tired. He was in the lab at Barts. He didn't especially need to be there, but the idea of remaining in his flat, continuing to stare at stale case notes and leads that trailed off into nothingness, had become unbearable. Besides, Molly was working the night shift.

Aline looked up from the jumble of maps she was examining, her eyebrow raised in question.

"I'm fine," he said.

She gave a shrug and went back to making pencil marks on the map.

He wiped a hand across his face and felt the rasp of stubble that he hadn't bothered to shave off that morning. He wasn't fine. He was far from fine. But it didn't matter. Fine or not, solving this case was the only thing that was important right now. And not for the thrill of the chase or the calming of his mind that usually sparked his interest in an investigation. This was personal. His people were dying. And it wasn't going to stop. Nothing was going to stop these murders until he caught the killer - or ran out of allies.

Fifteen names was already far too many, but there were so many others out there who were still in danger. The list could get so much longer.

He steeled himself and flipped back to the reports from Rosado's post-mortem. His eyes skimmed the impersonal lines of information, trace evidence laid out in lines of black and white, useful only in that it confirmed a complete lack of any useful information.

Whoever the people behind this were, they were very good at covering their tracks. Someone somewhere should have made a mistake by now, yet no one had. No real witnesses, no real evidence. The causes of death were creative and varied. The victims came from across countries and across cultures, speaking different languages and moving in entirely different circles from one another. Had Sherlock not known that the deaths were related, he never would have made the connection between any of them. There was nothing that tied these people together - nothing but their association with him. But who had made that connection? And how?

The never-ending frustration was making his head ache. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and then looked up at as the door to the lab swung open.

Molly pushed into the room with a stack of files clasped to her chest. Her face lit up as soon as she caught his eye. He felt a corresponding lurch somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs, but resisted the compulsion to return her smile and instead merely nodded.

She crossed the lab and placed the stack of files in front of him.

"Here are the trace findings from the Hampstead Killer and Broughton cases that you asked for," she said, sliding the stack towards him. "Are you thinking there might be a connection?"

"I won't know until I look," he said. He reached out and accepted the files from her. For the barest tenth of a second, his finger brushed the back of her hand, soft and warm and familiar. He took a breath and filed the sensation away without examining his motives for doing so.

"Where's John?" Molly asked. She glanced around the lab as though she might have simply overlooked him.

"I sent him home," Sherlock replied. "His fiancé called and threatened to have the locks changed if he wasn't home in time for dinner." He opened the first file and began sorting through the pages. "I should hate to think I was the one responsible for interfering with the happy couple's domestic bliss."

At the other table, Aline gave a snort of amusement.

Molly managed a smile, but he noticed that she didn't look in Aline's direction. "Alright then," she said, brightly. She rubbed her hands together as if she couldn't decide what else to do with them. "I'll just let you get it to it."

"Yes, thanks." He gave her a short nod and tried to concentrate on the pages in front of him. There was little chance he would find any correlation between these old cases and the current one, but he'd run out of other avenues of investigation, at least until Hassine's body was found.

When he looked up again a few minutes later, Molly was gone.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the uncomfortable knot in his stomach. He didn't need the physical reminder of his guilt any more than he needed the list of names to keep him accountable. He knew quite well that he was being a bastard to Molly. Some part of him felt justified - she knew what he was, she know  _how_ he was, and she had chosen to be with him anyway. If she felt slighted by his behaviour, then that was on her. But the other part of him was more honest - she deserved better. He could not keep using her this way. He could not keep turning to her in need and then give her nothing in return. When the case was over, he was going to have to decide what to do about the problem of Molly Hooper.

He glanced over to the table where Aline sat. Her dark hair was piled up in a bun on top of her head, her features composed into an expression of complete neutrality as she looked over the documents in front of her. She was working her way through transcribed internet chatter and making notations on the maps, looking for a pattern, a clue, a mention - anything that might apply to this case. It was like looking for a needle in a stack of needles, but he knew that she was perfectly content to do the work. Aline had never minded even the most tedious efforts, as long as it kept her on the right track to achieve her purpose.

His relationship with Aline seemed so easy in comparison to Molly. He was using Aline too, but in their case it was mutual. There was no guilt involved on either side. They were not dependent on each other for anything beyond a cooperative goal. They simply shared a common desire - to wipe James Moriarty's legacy from the world until it was nothing more than a dim memory.

Forever underestimated because of her youth, Aline had made an art out of taking advantage of people's misconceptions. She was shrewd, calm under pressure, preternaturally patient and fearless to a nearly self-destructive degree. They were alike in many ways, though even Sherlock would admit that he had nowhere near her level of patience.

During the months they had worked together, he had watched her bide her time without so much as a flicker of annoyance. Whether it was hours to execute a plan, weeks and months to hunt down a faction, or the years she had been waiting to have her revenge on Moriarty, she was never impatient. Implacable and determined, yes, but never hurried.

Sherlock's phone rang, cutting through the ribbon of his thoughts.

He glanced down at the screen. It was a number he didn't recognize.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said when the call connected.

"Mr. Holmes." The voice on the other end of the line was an exaggerated whisper, as though the speaker was trying not to be overheard. "This is Mike Padmore".

The number was unfamiliar, but the name was not. Padmore was a longtime member of his homeless network. "Yes, Mike. What is it?" The hand gripping the phone clenched hard. There was only one thing he currently had the homeless network looking out for at present, one person he had sent them to find.

"I'm in Edmonton, Mr. Holmes. Me and Adam was looking around some of them warehouses like you said, and we found a guy what looks like that picture you sent out."

"Dead?" Sherlock asked. He could feel his pulse thundering in his ears. So much relied on the answer to this question.

"No. He ain't dead yet."

"And you're sure it's him?"

"I seen 'im myself. Just like in the picture. They got 'im in a big warehouse just up from the Banbury Reservoir."

Sherlock was already on his feet, gesturing at Aline.

Her eyes widened in understanding. "Where?" she mouthed.

He held up a finger.

"What else? Is he being watched? How many men? Quickly, now."

"There's four what we saw. They all got guns - assault rifles, like military maybe."

"Can you make out anything they're saying?"

"They don't seem to be talkin' much. Mostly just gruntin' and pointin' like."

Something clicked suddenly in Sherlock's brain. "What language are they speaking?"

"I don't know. It ain't English, though."

"Alright." Sherlock pulled out his notepad. "Tell me exactly where you are." He took down the information and then ended the call. He felt surprisingly calm. Turning to Aline, he said, "We found them."

Her eyes blazed. She stood and squared her narrow shoulders. "I am ready. How do you want to proceed?"

"I need to get in touch with Lestrade." He was already pulling the number for Scotland Yard up on his phone. "And then we go after them. This ends  _tonight._ "

The phone was ringing in his ear as he pushed out of the lab with Aline on his heels.

Molly was in the hallway, arms laden with a tray of glass vials. She startled when the doors banged open, nearly upsetting the tray. "Sherlock - " she began, and then she saw his face. "What is it? What's happened?"

"We have a lead on our killer," he said, as he strode past her. "Get me Lestrade," he barked into the phone when the switchboard connected.

When Lestrade's voice came over the line, Sherlock recited the information Padmore had given him in quick soundbites. "I'm at Barts," he added as he jogged up the steps to the main level.

"On my way," Lestrade said. "Meet me at the Giltspur Street entrance in fifteen minutes."

Sherlock ended the call and shoved his phone into his pocket.

It was a warm night for mid-May. The hour was late, and traffic on this side of the hospital was sparse because of the nearby construction on the A1. Aline stood by his side, a slight, silent figure. She was entirely still, but not at all relaxed. She practically hummed with potential energy like a tightly compressed spring. Sherlock stood near the road with his face turned into the slight breeze. The thrill of the hunt was pumping through his veins. His senses were sharper, his focus narrowed - a dopamine-fueled, cerebral high.

And then he thought of Molly's pale face as he'd blown past her a few moments before, and he suddenly felt ill. His Molly, standing all alone in the dim hallway with a tray of samples clasped to her chest, her dark eyes wide. She was worried and frightened. And he had left her there without a word of explanation.

_No._

"What?"

He hadn't realized he had spoken out loud. But he knew what he needed to do - what he  _had_ to do. He turned to Aline. "I'll be right back."

"You'll - what? No!"

Aline was looking at him like he'd lost his mind. Maybe he had, but it didn't matter. He turned back towards the hospital, but before he could take a step, he felt Aline's hand grip his arm.

"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?" she demanded. Her face was a thundercloud.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Lestrade will be here in fifteen minutes. I'll be back in five."

Aline's fingers bit into him. " _Non_! This may be the only break we will ever get. Hassine is alive, but who knows how long he has. We have no time for you to play the besotted fool."

He shook her off. "We have five minutes. I have to do this. I'm sorry." He could hear her behind him, cursing in French, but he paid her no mind. He was through the door and down the stairs, moving fast. He only needed to see Molly, to - to what? Reassure her? Tell her goodbye? Even he wasn't entirely sure. He would figure it out when he got there. As long as he got to see her before -

Sherlock's momentum carried him through the stairwell doors at a near run. He skidded to an abrupt halt in the hallway outside the morgue and then immediately froze. The door swung shut behind him with hollow thump, and then there was silence.

Alarm bells had started going off in his head. Something was wrong.

"Molly?" he called out. His voice sounded odd in the stillness. It was the empty echo of unoccupied space. There was no one here. Molly was gone.

He took a deep breath. Focus. Identify the anomaly. What was it that had alerted him?

Aside from the florescent bulbs that lit the hallways, the lights in this wing were all linked to motion-detectors. When the sensors identified movement, the lights came on automatically. And when a preset number of minutes passed without registering any activity, they shut themselves off. The sensors had been implemented in the name of cost savings, but they drove Molly crazy when she was on the night shift. The after-hours presets were so short, the lights occasionally cut off while she was working at her desk.

Right now, the morgue was dark. A bit further down the hall, the lab was also dark.

That meant it had been five minutes or more since anyone had entered or left either of those rooms. But Molly had been carrying samples which were bound for the incubators in the back of the lab. He and Aline had gone up the stairs no more than seven minutes ago. No matter how quickly Molly managed to load the samples, it would have taken her more than two minutes to program the cycle into the incubator.

And the self-closing door to the lab wasn't closed all the way.

Unimpeded, the door would swing entirely shut. There was something blocking it, something that hadn't been there seven minutes ago.

A terrible feeling of unreality washed over Sherlock before he had even reached the door.

The tray Molly had been carrying was on its side, wedged between the two halves of the door. It had been caught on the backswing of the self-closing mechanism. Most of the carefully sorted and labeled vials had shattered on the floor, their contents spilled amidst thin shards of broken glass. It was as out of place and gut-churning as if it had been a pool of blood.

There were fifteen names on the list. A stack of grotesque autopsy photos - multiple angles in vivid, high-quality color. Reports that rendered every brutal detail down into an objective series of indifferent bullet points. He knew every fact of every case, every crumb of remotely relevant information. He knew it all. He knew  _them_  all. Those fifteen names. Those fifteen people. They were his people.

He saw the list in his mind - looping black script, the lines smudged from use. And on the sixteenth line, a new name.

_Molly Hooper._

"Oh, God," he said. It came out as a sob.

"Sherlock?"

He whirled around, but it was Aline who stood in the hallway behind him, looking angry, and perplexed.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Molly," he said. "She's gone." The floor seemed to tilt beneath him. He reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall.

Aline made a sound of annoyance. "Surely, she has only gone upstairs. Really,  _mon ami,_ " she said, her tone chiding. "We must be going." Then she reached his side and saw the mess on the floor. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh, I see."

He shook his head and stood. "I have to - " He thought suddenly of the back door - the one that funeral homes used to pick up the bodies from the morgue - the one that led directly out into a parking area in the rear of the building

Without a word, he turned and ran, barreling through the door and out into the night.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. The diffused light of the utility lamps bathed the parking area in a hazy yellow glow. At first he thought that the square was empty. But no, against the far wall, two men and a woman in nursing scrubs stood outside one of the service entrances, the smoke from their cigarettes swirling upward and dissipating into the night.

"A car," he called as he jogged toward them. "Have you seen a car or a truck drive out of here in the past ten minutes?"

"Sorry, mate. Just got here," one of the men offered through a puff of smoke. He reclined insouciantly against the bumper of a maintenance van.

The woman looked up at Sherlock. "Actually, yeah. I did see a truck a minute ago - or a van, I guess. It was white, like the laundry service. Parked right over there." She nodded in the direction of the mortuary doors. "It drove off - three, maybe four minutes ago."

"Which way did it turn?" he asked, his eyes boring into the woman. "Be certain."

All three of them were looking at him with something like suspicion, but the woman answered. "Right. It turned right. I'm certain," she added with a decisive nod.

Sherlock's mind raced. Three or four minutes was an eternity. But the construction on the A1 would slow them down. Traffic was being rerouted. If he could get around the blockage fast enough, he stood a decent chance of passing them head on. That would give him visual confirmation, at least. Then he could turn around and follow them at a distance.

"You," he said, pointing at the man slouched against the bumper of the van. "Is this yours?"

The man looked Sherlock up and down and then scowled. "Yeah it is. So what?"

"I need it."

The man scrubbed out his cigarette and pushed to his feet. "That's a bit too bad, innit, mate?"

Sherlock blew out an impatient breath. He didn't have time for this. "Aline!" he called.

From behind him came the tell-tale sound of a pistol being cocked.

"Sorry," he said without bothering to turn around. "It's an emergency. I'll bring it back." He gestured impatiently. "Keys."

It took a moment for the man to get his shaking hand in his pocket in order to retrieve his keys. His companions stood frozen, cigarettes burning on unregarded in their fingers.

Sherlock looked back at Aline before he reached for the door to van.

She stood in a relaxed Isoceles stance, both hands on the pistol, arms extended, the barrel still pointed at the man's forehead. If she felt any anxiety at all, she wasn't showing it.

"Don't shoot him," he said. "Unless you have to." He saw the man sway slightly in his peripheral vision. Aline's aim followed exactly. "I'm going after a white van, headed east on Little Britain. When you're done here, find Lestrade. Let him know what's going on."

"What about Hassine?" Her eyes flicked to meet his briefly.

"I don't intend to lose either one of them."

After a beat, she nodded.

He turned back to the van.

"Wait," Aline called out. Without taking her eyes off of the stricken man, she reached into her pocket and produced a second pistol. She held it out to Sherlock. "Take this."

He looked down at the gun and realized that he was going to have no problem whatsoever pulling the trigger when the time came.  _I_ _'_ _m coming, Molly._ "Thank you," he told Aline, meaning it.

"Good luck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No! Not his Molly! Who is behind this? And why are they targeting Sherlock's allies? Will he get there in time, or will Molly Hooper become the sixteenth name on his list? TUNE IN NEXT TIME...
> 
> Sorry to leave y'all on a cliffhanger. I promise things will start coming together in the next chapter!
> 
> I absolutely love reading all of your theories! Thanks so much for taking the time to leave a comment, or even just to *headdesk* out your frustration with the characters:) I can't wait to see how many of you get to the (hopefully) exciting climax and yell 'I KNEW IT!' and scare your families:)
> 
> Send virtual high-fives to Katie F for forcing me to cut a ton of completely unnecessary text out of this chapter, thus saving me from having to split it into two. And of course, for doing the usual bang-up job with her mighty Grammar Hammer. You guys just have no idea how many commas have perished during the writing of this fic.
> 
> I apologize, but I only just today realized I hadn't added this chapter here on AO3. On the plus side, it means that ya'll won't have to wait *nearly* as long as the folks over on ffnet have had to wait for the next chapter:)


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

Molly regained consciousness in discrete stages, her senses playing a groggy game of catch-up as her brain rebooted and started trying to process information once more. The first thing she became aware of was the pounding in her head, a red-tinged agony that pulsed behind her eyeballs in time with her rapid heartbeat. She moaned and tried to bring her hands up to her temples, but they refused to cooperate. Her thoughts were scattered and slippery, darting just out of reach when she tried to grasp them. What had happened? Where was she?

It slowly dawned on her that she was lying on her side on a concrete floor. Her cheek was pressed against the smooth surface, a brittle chill seeping into her bones. She tried to open her eyes, only to discover that they were already open. There simply wasn't anything to see. The darkness was absolute.

She remembered… Sherlock. Yes. She'd been taking samples to the lab when he said… What had he said? Something about the case - something… A lead. That was it. He'd said they had a lead. And then she'd gone into the lab and - no. No, she hadn't made it into the lab. There had been a sound behind her, and she'd turned to see, and then… nothing. She concentrated hard, but couldn't remember anything after that, only darkness.

God, her head ached. She tried to reach up again, but her hands refused to move independently. Something was pinching her wrists. Puzzled, she shifted them and felt a sharp pain. Her hands were bound together in front of her.

Panic hit her then, the adrenaline burning through the remaining fog that clouded her thoughts. She tried to sit up and found that her legs were also bound, lashed together with a tight strap at her ankles.

Someone had grabbed her from the hospital and brought her to this place. But how? And why?

She had a splitting headache, but there was no tenderness to indicate that she'd been hit over the head. And, she had clearly been unconscious for some time. People tended to think that you could get bashed over the head and be out for hours, but that only happened in the movies. In real life, unless the blow put you in a coma, you were only out for a couple of minutes, tops.

It was difficult to feel anything beyond the throbbing pain in her head, but after a minute of careful self-assessment, she found it - a dull, concentrated ache in her right shoulder. An injection site. It confirmed what she suspected - she'd been drugged.

It took a few moments for her to struggle into an upright position. It cost her a banged elbow, a and a knot on the back of the head, which happened when she overbalanced and fell back against a cement wall that she hadn't known was there. Sitting up was a ridiculously small victory, but she would take what she could get right now.

Even in the pervasive darkness, Molly could tell that she was in a wide-open area. The air felt empty and stale, and smelled of dust and old concrete. The soft sounds she made as she moved echoed into unimpeded space.

A warehouse, she realized. She was in an old and disused warehouse. A warehouse like the one Aline had escaped from, like the one they suspected the faceless victims were being held in before they were killed.

Molly lost her grip on the denial she had been clinging to, and fear crashed over her in a suffocating wave.

She was going to die here.

Every autopsy photo from the case was burned into her memory - fifteen victims, fifteen violent deaths, fifteen desecrated bodies.

She swallowed a sob and curled into herself. The straps at her wrists and ankles were cutting into her flesh, but she barely felt them. She wept silently, making no noise but for her laboured breathing. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and splashed onto her legs. She was cold and shaking, her hands and feet tingling from both restricted blood flow and shock.

There was a faint scraping sound from somewhere in the darkness, and Molly froze, too terrified even to breathe. She held utterly still for what seemed an eternity, and then the sound was repeated, but closer this time. Footsteps. Someone was coming closer.

Molly flung herself backwards, moving instinctively, if futilely, away from the unknown source of the noise. The wall at her back was no protection, no defense whatsoever, but it was as far as she could go. And it was all she had.

The steps drew closer. It sounded like a single pair of shoes scuffing across the dusty concrete floor.

And then they stopped, and there was silence once more.

Whoever it was was close. The steps had ended no more than ten or fifteen feet away.

The empty moment dragged on and Molly's nerves stretched to snapping.

"Who's there?" she called into the darkness. Her voice echoed back at her, sounding weak and pitiful.

There was no answer.

"Please," she called. "What do you want with me?"

Still nothing.

But she couldn't bear the silence any longer.

A few years previously, Scotland Yard had offered general courses in criminal justice to anyone who worked with the police on a regular basis. Curious, and always ready to learn something new, Molly had attended. A lot of what they taught was well beyond her scope, but the section on trauma psychology had intrigued her.

"If you ever have the misfortune to be kidnapped," the instructor had said, "don't fight back. Don't harass the kidnappers or complain about the conditions. If questioned, be as polite and cooperative as possible. Be submissive, but not over-compliant to the point of losing your dignity - you don't want to devalue yourself in their eyes or your own. But the most important thing you can do is to humanize yourself to your captors. Make them view you as a person just like they are. The normal human reluctance to kill another human can be overcome by increasing the physical and psychological distance between killer and victim. Reduce that distance."

"My name is Molly Hooper," she said to the darkness. Her voice quavered, but she had something to focus on now, a purpose that gave her confidence. "I'm a pathologist at Barts. I help figure out what's wrong when a patient goes to hospital, so they get the proper treatment." It seemed wise to leave out the part of her job that dealt with cutting open dead bodies. "My mum thought I was mad, going in for all that schooling just so I could be a doctor, but she was really proud of me when it was all said and done. You know how mums are." She swallowed. Her mouth was dry as sawdust. "She lives out near Birmingham now, my mum, I mean. She moved into a flat near her sister after my dad died. I don't get out to see her as much as I should."

She paused for a moment, listening hard for… anything. But the empty silence went on.

Molly started babbling then. She said anything and everything she could think of that would remind the kidnapper, or whoever it was that stood so quietly in the blackness, that she was a regular person, a real human-being with a life and family and friends. Eventually, she ran out of steam and trailed off. The silence was still there waiting for her. There had been no response to her tirade, no sound at all, in fact, since she started speaking. She was starting to wonder if she had imagined the sounds in the first place. What a wretched time to feel foolish.

Exhaustion was beginning to set in. Fear was a useful physiological response, but it was also brutal. It taxed the body's resources and burned itself out quickly.

Molly leaned back against the wall and took a deep, shuddering breath.

And then there was a loud click, followed by a deep electrical hum, and an industrial work lamp flared into blinding light no more than twenty feet in front of her.

Molly cried out and shielded her eyes with her bound hands, cringing back against the wall. The glare of the lamp was so bright that she couldn't escape it entirely, even with her eyes closed. Reddish spots painted the inside of her eyelids, and the visual stimulation sent a lance of pain stabbing through her head.

The darkness had made her feel disoriented and alone, but under the harsh lights, she felt vulnerable. Suddenly, she missed the darkness. It seemed like the safer option.

Metal scraped against concrete, a shrill scream that set Molly's teeth on edge. She fought to open her eyes, squinting into the brightness. A figure passed between her and the lamp, making the beam stutter.

Molly blinked rapidly, trying to clear the afterimages from her vision. Her eyes had begun to adjust, and she realized that what she was seeing was a tall, broad-shouldered man dragging a heavy metal desk chair across the floor.

He stopped when he was about ten feet away from her and set the chair upright so that it was facing her way. Once it was adjusted to his apparent liking, he took a seat and made a show of getting comfortable. He said nothing for a long time, merely sitting and watching her in silence. Then he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "You can't half talk, can you?" he said. His face was shadowed by the massive light behind him, but she got the distinct impression that he was grinning.

"Who are you?" she said. Her voice splintered like crystal. She hadn't realized she was crying again, but she could feel the tears now, and she hated that he could see them.

"Good golly, Miss Molly," he said. His accent was distinctly American, and he sounded as though he were making a concerted effort not to laugh. "And here I was thinking that I'd made some kind of impression." He gave a deliberately regretful sigh and leaned back in the chair. "I know I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I'm not usually as forgettable as all that."

Molly's thoughts clicked into place one at a time like the tumblers on a combination lock. That night at the Three Harts all those months ago. She'd been drunk. The American that had been hitting on her. And then Sherlock had come and whisked her away.

"You - you were the man at the pub," she said. It wasn't a question, but she suddenly had dozens of others.

"That's right." He seemed pleased that she'd remembered. "Mike Richardson,  _à_ _votre service_ _._ " He sketched a surprisingly elaborate bow considering the fact that he was seated. "It's good to know that I haven't entirely lost my way with the ladies."

She had absolutely no idea what to say to that.

Mike Richardson leaned forward again, out of the direct glare of the lamp, and Molly was able to make out his features. She recognized him now. He had a pleasant face, if not a handsome one. He had full lips and a strong jaw, and blonde hair that shone gold in the yellow light of the lamp. He was smiling at her as though they were simply having a bit of a chat. It was terrifying how absolutely normal he looked. If he was insane, it didn't show on his face in the slightest.

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

He furrowed a puzzled brow and then cocked his head to the side. "What makes you think I want anything to do with you?"

"Well - but," Molly stuttered. Nothing about this night was making any sense. She took a deep breath and tired another tactic. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Oh, that," Richardson said. He flapped his hand in the air as though the reason was entirely unimportant. "It's nothing personal, Molls. It's just business."

"Business?" She couldn't decide if that sounded dire or promising.

"Yeah. Sorry, sweetheart. It's not your fault that you got mixed up in this. It's a real bitch."

Dire, then. She was almost too tired for fear to leave its mark anymore.

"Why did you kill all of those people?"

"What people?" he asked. His brows drew together as though he were puzzling out her meaning, and then his face smoothed over. "Oh, you mean all those other gifts that they left around London for your boyfriend to find?" He shook his head even though she hadn't responded. "No. Much as I would love to say they were all mine, I have to give credit where credit is due. And credit is due elsewhere in this case. Lots of elsewheres actually," he added, thoughtfully.

Lots of elsewheres?

"Are you going to kill me?" She hadn't meant to ask it just then, but it was out before she could stop herself.

Richardson threw his head back and laughed. It was a deep, full-throated sound of merriment, but it made Molly feel cold to the bone.

"Oh, Miss Molly," he said when he'd gotten himself mostly under control. The note of amusement remained in his voice. "I love how direct you are. God, that's a refreshing change from everyone else on this fucking island. Usually you Brits are so damned restrained. It's all polite subtlety - 'a bit' this and 'rather' that. No one ever says what they mean. I don't know how any of you stand it. It's a wonder the entire country hasn't gone postal." He shook his head and then went on. "But to answer your question - yes, I'm going to kill you."

Molly made a choked sound and pressed herself further back against the wall. Richardson rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for God's sake, Miss Molly. I'm not going to do it  _now._ If I wanted you dead, I could have just done it before you woke up." He pushed to his feet. "I'm thirsty. Do you want some water?"

Molly shook her head. She didn't trust herself to speak. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth now, she would start screaming and never be able to stop.

Richardson moved out of the lamp's glare. She could hear him rustling around in the shadows for a moment and then he reappeared carrying two water bottles, their sides beaded with condensation. He held one out, then seemed to recollect himself. "Oh, that's right. Sorry." He twisted the cap off of one of the bottles and stepped closer, extending it towards her. Water rolled down the bottle, cold as blades of ice where it dripped onto her aching hands.

She shrank back, shaking her head, still unable to speak.

"Don't be like that," Richardson said, cajoling. He bent down and wedged the bottle into the cradle created by her bound hands. "There we go. Wouldn't want you to get dehydrated before it's time for you to die."

Her fingers were going slowly numb, and the ice-cold bottle  _hurt._  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she lowered her face to keep him from seeing her cry again. She could spare herself this one small indignity.

For the moment, he let her be. He returned to his chair with his water bottle, and slouched backwards, making the ancient springs creak in protest.

Molly thought of Sherlock.

She wondered if he and Aline had followed up on their lead yet. Perhaps they had wrapped things up quickly. Perhaps they had already discovered that she was missing. Perhaps they were out looking for her even now.

But the tears that rolled down her cheeks were more honest than her thoughts.

Sherlock had no idea she was gone. And by the time he found out, it would be too late. Richardson seemed content to wait for the time being, but that wasn't terribly reassuring. The memory of Aline's injuries was still fresh enough in her mind for Molly to fear a long imprisonment almost as much as she feared dying.

Very soon, she was going to die - alone in a filthy warehouse, with far too much of her life left unlived. It just wasn't fair.

She didn't have a long list of regrets. There hadn't been enough time to make all of the usual mistakes and wrong turns that came with living a full life. She wished she had spent more time with her mother - called more often and visited more regularly. They each had their own lives to lead, and it had been too easy to let the months slip past without reconnecting. It was hard to grasp the fact that she would never have that opportunity again. There were friends and family that she should have stayed in touch with, trips that she should have taken, adventures that she should have had.

To her surprise, it wasn't the husband and children that she had hoped to have one day that she mourned most. It was Sherlock. Too late came the realization that none of the little worries that had plagued her meant anything, really. She loved him. She had fallen in love with him almost from the first moment, and she would love him with her last breath. And, it didn't matter in the slightest that he didn't love her the same way that she loved him, or even that he might have one day gotten bored with her and moved on. It didn't matter what 'might' have happened one day. It certainly didn't matter now. She had spent so much time worrying about a future that would never happen that she hadn't been able to fully appreciate the time that they did have.

What guarantee did anyone have really? Life was made up of a long string of unimportant moments that appeared dull and ordinary when they were lived, but shone like gold in the sunlight once they were nothing more than memories. Molly would have given anything for one more unimportant moment with Sherlock Holmes.

Richardson stood and stretched, and then pulled up his shirt sleeve to check his watch. He turned and looked expectantly into the darkness behind the lamplight.

Molly felt a cold wave of nausea roll through her. Was someone else coming? Was her time more limited than she had even supposed it might be?

"Well, Miss Molly - " Richardson began.

"Please," she said. She scrabbled backwards against the wall. Panic made her chest feel tight. Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "You don't have to do this."

"I really do, though," he said. He crossed over and crouched down in front of her, a regretful expression on his face. "If it's any consolation, I really did enjoy being with you that night in the pub. Like I said, it's nothing personal. It's just business."

"And what business is that, Mr. Richardson?"

The voice came out of the darkness, as familiar to Molly as her own. She would have wept in relief had she any tears left to cry.

Sherlock had found her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all knew he'd get there in time, didn't we?
> 
> Did anybody peg Mike Richardson as being a member of the Evil League of Evil back when he first popped up during the debacle at The Three Harts? What part do you suppose he plays in all this? And who do you think the 'others' might be? I'm dying to know if any of y'all have it all figured out at this point. But whether you're guessing madly or just waiting to see - all will finally be revealed in the next chapter!
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. I especially loved the ones that included 'Argh', 'Ugh', 'OMG', 'Ahhh' and 'WHAT?'. It does wonders for my tender little writer's heart (and also for my evil streak). You guys have been so much fun!
> 
> And my usual exclamations of gratitude to Katie F for comma wrangling above and beyond the call of duty, providing the inspiring color commentary and just basically being the most badass beta the world has ever known. *tips hat*


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Sherlock kept the gun pointed at Richardson. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger, but there were still too many questions that needed to be answered.

Molly was alive. But this night was far from over.

He looked her over as best he could from where he stood. She was bound at the wrists and ankles. Her her body was contorted sideways, pressed against the wall as though she were trying to disappear into it. She looked pale in the hazy, yellow light, but she seemed otherwise uninjured. Richardson was a fortunate man. Nothing would have spared him from a painful and immediate death had Sherlock seen so much as a scratch on her.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock called to Molly.

"Oh, you know. I've had better days." Molly gave him a weak smile, "But I'm okay."

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. He could see traces of tears on her cheeks, but the fire was still there. She was afraid, but she wasn't broken.

"I have to give you credit, Mr. Holmes," Richardson said. "You were a lot quicker than I expected. I thought I was going to have some more quality time with your sweet little friend here."

"You have no idea how pleased I am to have exceeded your expectations," Sherlock replied. "Now, if you would be so kind as to move away from Miss Hooper…" He gestured off to the side with the barrel of the gun, but Richardson stood his ground.

"No, I don't think so," he said. "I think I'm going to stay right here. You're not going to risk putting a bullet in your girlfriend." He reached down and unsheathed a long, thin blade from his belt. He smirked. "Besides, I'm enjoying our chat. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"We've met."

"Well, yes, that's true," Richardson agreed. "But that really wasn't under the best of circumstances, was it?"

"Your drugging Molly's drink in an attempt to kidnap her did put something of a darker spin on the occasion."

Richardson barked a laugh. "Oh, you figured that out, did you?" He looked down at Molly's huddled form on the ground. "Poor Miss Molly. She might even have noticed that her drink tasted funny if she hadn't been swilling that awful cider and blackcurrant." He gave a theatrical shudder. "But, no harm, no foul, eh, Mr. Holmes? You had months and months with her after that. You should be thanking me, really."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Thanking you?"

"I could have had her any time after that." Moving with deliberate slowness, Richardson slid his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He held them up between his thumb and forefinger and gave them a gentle shake. "Had my own key made up and everything." He put them back in his pocket, but the smug grin remained on his lips.

Sherlock had to wait until the red haze cleared from his vision before he could speak again. "Then why didn't you? Why did you wait until now?"

"Instructions," Richardson said. "But just between you and me, I thought waiting was a stupid idea." He shrugged. "But what are you going to do?"

"Who instructed you? Why?"

Richardson clucked his tongue in mocking disapproval. "Nice try, Mr. Holmes. But I don't think we're quite ready for the 'who' of the thing yet. I've no doubt you'll find out soon enough." He reached out and let his hand ghost over the top of Molly's head. She flinched. Sherlock tightened his grip on the gun. "As to the _why_ \- well, isn't that part obvious?"

Sherlock frowned. "Not to me."

"No, it wouldn't be, would it?" Richardson shook his head, but seemed amused. He propped his shoulder against the wall, far too close to Molly for Sherlock's liking. "So here I am at The Three Harts. I've been trailing Miss Hooper for weeks, just biding my time, and _finally_ she's doing something off routine. I'm in place. I'm ready to make the grab - a little flirting, a little GHB in her drink, and then we'll be on our way. It should have been as easy as falling off a log. But then who comes running to the rescue but Sherlock fucking Holmes." He laughed. "You can imagine how pissed off I was that you ruined the pick-up for me."

"So sorry to have inconvenienced you," Sherlock said.

Richardson snorted and looked down at Molly. "See there? A sarcastic apology right in the middle of a hostage situation. Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with you Brits?" He let out an aggrieved sigh and then went on. " _Anyway_. We thought it was interesting that you were playing knight in shining armor to someone like her. It seemed a little bit out of character for you. So we decided to let it play out - see what happened." A salacious grin spread across Richardson's face. "And aren't you glad we did? From what I understand, you fucked her six ways from Sunday after that."

Revulsion rolled over Sherlock. He considered shooting the man on principle. "But why go after Molly in the first place?" he asked, forcing the words to come out evenly despite the fury that churned in his gut. "Why any of them? What has all this got to do with me?"

"You? Hell, I don't give a shit about you." Richardson cocked his head to the side and regarded Sherlock. "You still haven't quite figured it out, have you?" he said, and then huffed out a laugh. "Damn. And here I thought the great Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be able to deduce my life story just by looking at me. Consider me disillusioned."

Sherlock was suddenly very aware of how little he really knew. Richardson seemed far too relaxed for having been found out. The man had a gun pointed at his head, and he still seemed unperturbed. He was either completely mad, or he knew something that Sherlock didn't. Sherlock didn't like not knowing.

"As for the others," Richardson went on, "I don't know anything about them either. I chose Miss Molly here because she seemed like she'd be the most fun." He nudged her with his toe. Molly shifted away from him, but didn't look up.

"Business," Sherlock said. _Keep his attention off of Molly_. "You said it was 'just business'."

"Sure," Richardson said with a shrug. "You do the work, you get paid. Capitalism at its finest."

"I see. And how much did they pay you for killing the cat?" Richardson laughed.

"That one was a freebie. What can I say? I got bored."

"Sherlock."

The voice came from behind him. He swung around, but his mind had already made the identification before he finished bringing the pistol up to bear on the middle of Aline's chest.

She stood several feet behind him, her hands held up in a defensive position.

His first inclination was relief, followed quickly by confusion. She was alone.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.

Aline shrugged and dropped her hands. "Halfway to the warehouse in Edmonton by now, I should think. I told him you had gone on ahead."

He frowned. "Why would you - "

Behind him, Molly cried out.

He whirled back around. Richardson had pulled her to her feet and was holding her pinned against him, her back against his chest, the knife pressing hard into the hollow at the base of her throat. Already, a tiny rivulet of blood was running down her chest. It bloomed into a bright red flower at the collar of her shirt.

Horrified realization bled into Sherlock's veins, but before he could turn back around, he heard the unmistakeable click of a hammer being pulled back on a gun.

For a split second, he allowed himself to wish, to desperately hope, that he was wrong. And then he turned. The gun was pointed at his chest.

Aline's expression was placid. "Sorry, Sherlock," she said.

Sherlock Holmes, who prided himself on his ability to read people and situations, was taken completely by surprise.

"Aline?" He held her gaze, waiting for some sign of regret, or better still, some indication that he was misreading something somewhere - anywhere.

"Sherlock," she said, and then a sweet smile spread across her face. "Have I astonished you?"

"Astonished isn't the word I would use," he managed. "Isn't it?" she said, with a wry arch of her brow. "Let me guess - you would prefer 'betrayed'."

"That has more of a ring to it," he said. He wanted to check on Molly, but he didn't dare turn his back on Aline.

"I haven't really betrayed you, you know," Aline said. "I might have misled you just a little bit as to my own purposes, but I never lied."

"Everything about you is a lie," he said coldly.

"Now, now, Sherlock," Aline admonished gently. "I helped you take down Moriarty's network, but you never really questioned _why_ , did you? I never had to lie because you never asked."

Sherlock stifled a shudder. "He murdered your parents."

"He murdered a lot of people's parents," Aline countered.

Sherlock frantically sorted through facts and information. All the data he could process from three years of research and personal knowledge blurred across his mind. There was too much to sort through and not enough time. What had he missed? What had been in front of him all along? What hadn't he seen?

And suddenly it was there, the tiny piece of omitted information that made all the difference.

"Your parents," he said. Aline cocked her head to the side and blinked at him expectantly. "Moriarty murdered your parents. But he wasn't hired by the _gang del la Brise de Mer_."

A smile slid across her face. "I never said he was."

"You paid James Moriarty to murder your parents."

"Clever, clever Sherlock. _Très bien._ I even paid extra so that he would let me watch."

Sherlock's lip curled up in disgust. "Why?"

She regarded him with dark eyes for a long moment. "Because I grew tired of running," she said finally. "Because my father, _l'imbécile_ , chose to betray _La Famille_. I was no more than a child when my home was torn away from me. I knew no peace, no safety, no place that was my own for seven years. We were forced to run, always run, run run! " Her girlish voice had risen to a shrill pitch, and for the first time in their acquaintance, Sherlock saw a glimmer of madness in her eyes. She took a deep breath and quickly recovered her usual calm demeanor. "I would never know a peaceful moment as long as my father was being pursued by _La Famille_." She gave a lopsided shrug. "And so I eliminated him myself. Problem solved."

"How very practical of you."

"I am that, if nothing else," she said with a flicker of a smile. "Now, Sherlock, I must ask you to place your gun on the floor. Michael, if you would be so good as to bring Miss Hooper."

Sherlock slowly complied, using the opportunity to check on Molly.

Richardson took the knife away from her throat long enough to reach down and slice through the zip-tie that held her ankles. She cried out as the blood began to flow back into her feet. She would have fallen, but he grabbed her again and half-dragged, half-carried her across the floor.

It was all Sherlock could do not to throw himself at Richardson and throttle the life out of him, gun be damned. It was only the knife at Molly's throat that kept him still.

"Why let me have the gun in the first place?" Sherlock asked, turning his attention back to Aline. "Why not send me in here unarmed?"

"For a genius, you can be surprisingly stupid, Sherlock," Aline said with a disdainful sniff. "Had I not armed you, you would have lingered in the shadows and waited until Lestrade arrived with his calvary. You are besotted, but you are not entirely a fool."

There was little doubt as to how Aline intended for this to end. There would be two more murders that would go unsolved due to lack of evidence. Aline and Richardson would walk away with nothing to tie them to any of it.

Sherlock was playing for time, but he was also desperate to understand. "So, it was you all along. All of the deaths. Mihail, Awurama, Yasmin - you killed them."

"Goodness, no!" Aline laughed. "As if I would have had the time. No, _mon ami_. I did not kill them. I had them killed. There is a significant difference."

"They were good people. And they were no threat to you. Why have them killed?"

Aline settled herself into the chair Richardson had provided. "It was never about them specifically," she said with a shrug. "At least, not really."

"Then why them?"

"Why not them?" she countered. "They had already proven that they were in the pocket of Sherlock Holmes. Those are just the kind of liabilities that I do not care to leave to chance - the kind of thing our friend Moriarty did not take into consideration." She crossed her legs primly, the gun balanced on her knee. "There was also the added bonus of leading you on a merry chase."

Sherlock had never known such profound hatred. "So this all comes down to Moriarty, does it?" he asked. "You're what? His - " "

His what?" Aline broke in, eyes shining. "His protégé? His lover? His second cousin, twice removed?" She broke into peals of girlish laughter that set Sherlock's teeth on edge. "Oh, Sherlock, you must always look for connections, mustn't you? No, I'm sorry. It is nothing like that. I only met the late, great James Moriarty on the one occasion. I am not even a fan of his work." She leaned forward, smirking. "What I am is an opportunist, Sherlock. When you took Moriarty out of the game, you left behind a hole that needed filling."

Understanding rolled over Sherlock, followed immediately by a wave of fury. So much carnage. So much wasted life. And for what?

"You're rebuilding his network," he said flatly.

" _My_ network," Aline corrected. "But yes."

"The murders." Molly's voice was hoarse. "They were tryouts."

"Ah, but the mouse still squeaks!" Aline said. " _Très bien_ , Molly. I myself prefer to think of them as auditions, but it is as much one thing as another, no? I believe it is important to rigorously screen prospective employees."

"A serial killer that uses other killers to do the killing," Sherlock said, feeling cold. "No link between the murders, no motive, no consistent MO." The months of frustration and helplessness that he had endured, the mutilated bodies of the people he had called friends - they had all been nothing but disposable pawns in Aline's demented game.

Aline looked downright pleased. "I am not nearly as clever as your James Moriarty," she said. "But then, wasn't that the cause of his downfall in the end? He was so brilliant that the rest of the world seemed dull. He was so desperate to find - well, you - that he lost sight of everything else. He began dismantling his own empire long before you stumbled along, you know. It would have taken even Sherlock Holmes more than two years to tear down everything he had built up if Moriarty hadn't self-destructed at the end. All those cases he handed you, to tease you and draw you into his game - those are very bad for business. No, I am not as clever as he was. I am intelligent, though. But more importantly, I am cunning and determined, and, Mister Holmes, I am patient."

"You murdered innocent people."

"No," Aline said. "You did." She bit off the words. "You made them important when you chose them. You _used_ them." She shook her head, her lips compressed into a line. "You pretend that you can do it all yourself, that you do not need anyone. But the problem is that you need people too much. You make yourself nearly impossible to like, but that's a defense mechanism, isn't it? Imagine _trying_ to make someone like you and failing. How devastating. So you make yourself impossible to love to avoid the pain of failure. And it works… most of the time." Her eyes went to Molly who flinched under the scrutiny. Sherlock felt sick.

"But it turns out that you do need people, because you can't actually do everything yourself, can you?" Aline's tone was mocking. "And so you reach out to all the little nobodies to help you with your dirty work, and then, when you are done, you dispose of them. What did you think would happen?"

Sherlock was shaking with suppressed rage, but he would not rise to her goading. He would not give her that kind of control over him. "So you intend to run the network yourself, do you?" he said.

Her lips curled up into a smile. "Something like that," she said. "Men need to be led, Sherlock. The sheep need a shepherd. Moriarty did it all for the game. He did not desire power or money or position. He just liked to watch the world dance. But that's no way to run a business. I intend to manage my network properly."

"You're insane," Molly said, and then hissed as Richardson's knife pressed deeper into her flesh. A fresh line of blood ran down her pale skin.

Sherlock breathed in a promise to himself. Before the night was over, he was going to kill Mike Richardson.

"Oh, Miss Hooper," Aline said. She got to her feet. "I'm sure that thinking me insane makes all of this easier for you to accept. But I am merely offering a service that meets a growing demand - market forces at work, if you will."

"You're a psychopath," Molly whispered.

Aline shrugged. "Perhaps. But psychopaths are the ones that cause revolutions."

"Is that what you're doing, Aline?" Sherlock asked. "Causing a revolution?"

"Maybe," Aline said. "But mostly no. Mostly I am following the selfish dictates of my own desires." She took a step closer to Molly, but flicked a coy gaze at Sherlock. "Just like you are, _mon ami_." She reached out a hand and smoothed it gently across Molly's cheek. "She is such a little mouse, Sherlock. I would never have picked her for you."

Aline was nearly nose to nose with Molly. Sherlock clung to the image of the knife at Molly's throat. _Don't move. Don't react. Don't give them a reason to hurt her_.

"What is he like in bed?" Aline asked Molly suddenly. "I have always wondered. I tried to get him to fuck me back when we were working together, you know. Men are always so much easier to lead around when you've got them by the cock." She gave a regretful sigh. "But he would not be enticed." She gave Sherlock a thoughtful look. "Or did you even realize that I was attempting to seduce you? You do lack a little something in the way of social skills." She chuckled, and then turned her assessing gaze back to Molly.

"You puzzle me greatly, Molly Hooper," she said. "You are so simple and plain. I do not understand what he sees in you."

"Enough," Sherlock ground out. "What is it you want? What's your game?"

"No game, Sherlock," Aline said. "I have already told you. I don't play games. I do what needs to be done. And I need you out of my way."

At last they had come to it. "Cleaning up after yourself?" he said with a sneer.

Aline smile brightly. "Tying up loose ends." She stepped back several paces. "I am no James Moriarty. I've no need for theatrics. I'm not going to point the gun at you and threaten. I am going to point the gun at you." She swung the muzzle up and pointed it at Sherlock's chest, and then smiled sweetly. "And then I am going to pull the trigger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, go ahead and congratulate yourself if you didn't trust Aline from the outset. You're one up on Sherlock.
> 
> Apologies for leaving you on yet another cliff-hanger. I'll try to not keep you hanging too long. I've got quite a bit written of the next chapter, but it's a tricky one and I've got company this week, so it might take me a couple of extra days. I'm pretty sure there's only the one chapter left, but I've been wrong before (like that one time when I thought this was only going to be around 20 chapters long).
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued patience and encouragement. Your comments and reviews mean the world to me. Part of me is excited to finish this story, and part of me is *really* going to miss all of the wonderful interaction with you guys. I guess I'll just have to keep writing:)
> 
> I mention her every time, but I cannot emphasize enough how amazing Katie F has been and continues to be. These last few chapters have been a real challenge to write, and she's been hugely encouraging as well as mercilessly objective. Y'all have her to thank for this not being a 5,000 word chapter. Many fanks, ginger spice!


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

Aline's finger tightened on the trigger and Sherlock straightened, bracing himself for the finish.

Next to him, he heard Molly's voice. "No!" she cried.

Sherlock registered movement out of the corner of his eye just as the gun roared. But what he felt was not the anticipated sting of a bullet. Instead, it was the solid weight of Molly's body as she was thrown backwards into him by the force of the impact.

He caught her instinctively, easing them both to the floor with a sense of unearthly horror. An impossibly bright stain had already soaked the front of her blouse and was spreading far too quickly. Her face was colorless, her eyes closed. A jagged red slash ran from her collar to her shoulder where she had ripped free of Richardson's grip.

"Molly," he said, choking on a flood of disbelief. Her body was limp in his arms. Was she breathing?

Through the ringing in his ears, Sherlock heard Richardson swear. He looked up to see the other man on his knees, feeling frantically along the ground. Dazedly, Sherlock realized that Molly must have knocked the knife from Richardson's hand when she pulled away. For the moment, at least, Richardson was unarmed.

Aline made an irritated sound in the back of her throat. "Well, that was a sweet gesture, if utterly useless. Wouldn't you say, Sherlock?" She raised the gun again. "Unless you have any other smitten fools hidden about your person, I rather doubt I will miss you this time."

Sherlock was moving before he was even aware of his intention to do so. He lunged forward with a snarl, his eyes locked not on the hollow cylinder of the gun barrel that was leveled at his chest but on the throat of the woman wielding it.

The gun went off again. He saw the muzzle flash, and this time he felt the immediate, shrieking pain of the bullet, but he didn't even pause to wonder if the hit was mortal.

He saw Aline's eyes widen in surprise as he kept coming at her. She was bringing the gun back down, recovering from the recoil and readying herself to fire again. But it was too late. He was on her.

He brought his shoulder down and tackled her hard, sending a hot, black wave of pain through his body as they both went crashing to the ground.

The tussle for the gun was vicious, but brief. He may have been wounded, but he still outweighed her by a good eighty pounds. He managed to pin her under the weight of his body, one knee planted in the middle of her chest. She clung desperately to the weapon, still trying to throw him off balance long enough to bring it up between their bodies. He grabbed her wrist and twisted, bringing it down hard on the concrete floor. The fragile bones beneath his fingers gave with a satisfying snap that made her scream. Her grip loosened and the gun fell from her hand.

Distracted by the search for his knife, Richardson was slow to react. He came after Sherlock with a shrill cry of outrage, diving across the floor with the wicked blade flashing in his hand. He had it raised for an overhand strike, ready to bring it down in the center of Sherlock's back. But he was a split second too late.

Sherlock's fingers closed on the grip of the pistol. Acting instinctively, he swung around, bringing the gun up and aiming it one smooth motion. And then he fired.

Richardson dropped like a rock, bellowing in pain and anger. He thrashed around on the floor and then rolled to his side, managing to regain his feet. But his arm was clutched across his abdomen, a flood of dark blood already soaking the front of his shirt. His face was twisted into an ugly grimace, his teeth bared in a snarl. He staggered forward, the knife still gripped in his free hand.

"This isn't over yet," he hissed.

"Wrong." Sherlock raised the gun and shot Mike Richardson in the head.

Aline screamed and thrashed beneath Sherlock, trying to throw him off. Pain tore through him. The shot had taken him just below the shoulder. She'd missed his heart, but not by much. Breathing was an exercise in pure agony. He braced his right forearm across her throat, pinning her to the ground. His hands were sticky and red, his shirt soaked with blood. _Mine or Molly's?_ he wondered almost idly. He had to shake his head to clear it.

Aline's face was scraped and bloody from the scuffle for the gun. A split lip oozed blood down her chin and stained her teeth pink. She was panting, her expression contorted with pain, but she still managed a wry grin, made macabre by the blood on her teeth. "Well, damn," she said, sounding more aggravated than injured. The pressure on her throat made the words come out as a hoarse whisper. "I suppose this means I'll have something else in common with James Moriarty - both of us bested by fucking Sherlock Holmes." She turned her head to the side and spat out a mouthful of blood. "Oh, well."

Sherlock was breathing heavily. He could barely think through the pain that wracked his body. Molly. He needed to check on Molly. He turned his head to where her crumpled body lay. She was still. So very, very still. Cold fear lanced through him. He needed to go to her. She needed help. She needed a doctor. He had to get her to a doctor. She was a doctor, but she needed a doctor. She was a pathologist, but she didn't need a pathologist. She was okay. She was going to be okay. She - .

Beneath him, Aline gave a gurgling chuckle. "So sorry about your girlfriend, Sherlock." She tried to move and then groaned. "It isn't that I'm not enjoying this, but shouldn't you be calling the police? I think you broke my wrist, and it hurts."

Sherlock was trying to even out his breathing, but the pain was excruciating. The world was starting to go grey around the edges. Spots danced merrily in his vision, and he knew he was running on borrowed time. Even if someone had heard the gunshots and phoned the police, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to remain conscious until they arrived.

And Molly. He had to get to Molly. She was so pale, her lashes startlingly dark against her cheeks. She needed him.

"She might still be alive," Aline said, breaking into his thoughts. "You might still have the chance to save her." A satisfied smirk played around the edges of her lips. "But you have to make a choice, Sherlock. You can go to her or you can hold me here until the police arrive. You cannot do both." She craned her head to the side, trying to get a look at Molly. "It is not looking good for Miss Hooper, is it?" She clucked her tongue. "It would be such a shame to let her die here, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock couldn't focus. There was so much pain. Aline's face swam in front of him. Sometimes it was her cold blue eyes he saw looking up at him, and sometimes it was Molly's warm brown ones. Breathing was requiring so much effort. He felt as though he were gasping for air. Exsanguination, he realized with distant fascination. He was slowly bleeding to death. The red blood cells that should have been carrying oxygen throughout his body were instead leaking out onto the cold concrete floor. Soon his body would start to go into shock and begin to shut down. First, he would lose consciousness as his brain attempted to divert what little blood flow was left in order to maintain his essential organs. Then, his blood pressure would drop to unrecordable levels, his pulse would diminish and vital organ perfusion would fail. Within fifteen minutes, he would be dead.

And Aline would walk free.

"Well?" Aline was looking up at him expectantly. "What is it going to be, _mon ami_?" she asked. Her voice was a sing-song challenge. "Head or heart?"

Sherlock blinked down at her. Even through the muddled fog of his fading mind, the answer came to him clearly, and at once. There was no question. There never had been. Ponderously, he shifted to the side, moving clumsily off of Aline's body, freeing her. "Heart," he said. He sat back on his knees with his shoulders bowed, panting for air. "I choose heart."

Aline staggered as she rose to her feet. She had her broken wrist cradled against her chest, swaying slightly as she smiled down at him "Good choice," she said, sounding amused.

"I'm glad you think so," he said. Then he raised the gun and shot Aline Cloutier in the heart.

He didn't wait to see the body fall.

Nauseated with pain and dizzy from the blood loss that was slowly killing him, Sherlock made his way back to Molly's side. He was too weak to do more than pull himself across the floor, leaving a wide smear of rusty red blood in his wake. He wasn't sure if he were close to dying yet, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered beyond getting to Molly.

She was just as he had left her - lying sprawled on her back, her shirt a wet and gory mess. The original color was indistinguishable beneath all the blood. What color had she been wearing? He couldn't remember. It wasn't important, but he suddenly wished he knew.

With clumsy hands, he gathered her into his arms and cradled her limp form in his lap. Using Richardson's discarded knife, he managed to saw through the plastic ties that still bound her wrists together. He chafed her fingers in his own, but they remained cold and motionless. He pressed his fingers to the underside of her wrist but couldn't find a pulse. Helplessly, he tried to smooth the hair out of her face, but his fingers were still wet with blood and left ugly red smears across her colorless cheeks. She was impossibly pale. A tear rolled down the side of her nose and for an instant he felt a flash of hope. It died when another drop of moisture fell onto her upturned brow and he realized that he was the one that was crying.

"No, Molly. No." He choked on a sob that burned through his chest. "Please, no."

It couldn't end this way - for either of them. He couldn't let her go knowing that her last thought would be that he had failed her. And he could not imagine a life without her. He wanted more time.

Sherlock's breath was coming in short gasps now. These would be his final moments, he knew. He felt so cold and so tired. His fingers were going numb, but he kept Molly clasped to his chest with every ounce of strength remaining to him. He would not let her go. Not now, not ever.

He was rocking her gently in his arms, whispering promises into her hair, when the outside door crashed open. There was a confusion of noise - shouts and stomping feet, and then Sherlock heard John's familiar voice cry out from very far away.

"Sherlock! Oh, Christ."

"John," he croaked. "Help her!"

And then the darkness took him and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know! I know! I said this would be the last chapter. But then I *wrote* it and it was like a GAZILLION words long so I thought it might make sense to break it into two chapters, and then THAT chapter got to be too long, so now there are two more chapters left after this one. Oops. And I left y'all on yet another cliffhanger, which compelled Katie F to comment: 'You can't leave these people hanging, shrew beast!' So, at least you know she's got your backs. I *promise* the wait for the next chapter will be much shorter.
> 
> Thanks for your patience, guys. I have loved writing this story and loved hearing from all of you. Honestly, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with myself when I'm not playing with these characters anymore!
> 
> And a *grudging* thanks to Katie F this time, because she tore this chapter to SHREDS before she would let me post it, callously ignoring my plea of 'but the word count, Katie! THINK OF THE WORD COUNT!'. The really annoying part is that, as always, she was right. Dammit.


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

"Blood pressure is ninety over sixty-five. Pulse ox stable at ninety-five percent."

Sherlock swam upwards out of a sea of clinging darkness. His body seemed weighted down. Even breathing was a monumental effort. His eyelids fluttered, but they, too, seemed to be pinned in place. He could hear voices, but they sounded muddled and indistinct as though the speakers were underwater, or he was.

God, he was tired. His mind felt fuzzy and disconnected. He tried to latch onto his thoughts, but they were slippery and skittered away when he reached for them. But there was something there, something just out of reach, something important…

A name coalesced in his mind, slow and sluggish, but adamant, as if the thought that formed it was punctuated with an exclamation point. It was a simple word that evoked vivid memories of warmth and beauty, kindness, acceptance and love, all rolled into two easy syllables that his clumsy lips would not form.

"Muh - " He tried again. "Muh - lee."

The sounds around him changed abruptly, and his mind cringed away from the sudden noisy chaos. He tried to stay conscious, but the darkness was already pulling him back down beneath the grasping waves. As he faded, he heard his name spoken in a familiar voice.

"Sherlock? Are you awake? Is he awake? Jesus - "

 _John_ , he thought, and then he was gone again, back beneath the waves.

He regained consciousness again sometime later. Breathing seemed somewhat easier. His eyelids cracked open at his command, but they still felt heavy as lead. Exhaustion clung to him, the urge to sleep tugging at him with persuasive fingers, but he shook it off. The pain was waiting for him, but it seemed distant and unimportant just now. There was something that was important. Something… He needed information. He needed to know.

The room was dark and silent beyond the usual hum of activity that underscored every hospital room in the world.

"Molly," he rasped. His voice was scratchy with disuse.

Mycroft's voice came out of the darkness. "Welcome back to the world, little brother."

A lamp came on, and Sherlock winced against the glare. He turned his head to see his brother seated across the room in a plush chair that was most certainly not hospital standard. Leave it to Mycroft to requisition furniture for a sick room.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear his muddled thoughts. "Molly," he said. "Is she - " Fear took hold of him then, closing over his heart like a cold vise. He tried to gauge what the response would be by examining his brother's features, but Mycroft was as stoic as ever.

"Alive," Mycroft said. He got to his feet and came to Sherlock's bedside. "You look terrible," he said.

Relief flooded through Sherlock, though the rush of neurochemicals left him shaky and nauseated. He closed his eyes and sagged back against his pillow with a silent word of thanks. She was alive. That was all that mattered. When he opened his eyes again, Mycroft was still there, looking down at him with a grim expression on his face.

"She hasn't woken up yet, Sherlock."

Sherlock let that thought sink in for a moment. "How long?" he asked, finally.

"She required extensive surgery to repair damaged blood vessels. They had to remove the bullet as well as bone fragments from several broken ribs. She lost quite a lot of blood, I'm afraid - as did you."

"But how long?" Sherlock reiterated, with growing agitation. The time elapsed mattered, he knew. The longer a coma lasted, the less that chance that the person would wake up again - ever. He could not, _would not_ , imagine losing Molly that way.

Mycroft took a deep breath and for the briefest second, his impassive facade slipped and Sherlock could see the underlying worry and pain that his brother was usually so skillful at hiding. "You must understand, Sherlock, Miss Hooper has lost a lot of blood. She was severely hypotensive when they brought her in. She - "

"Molly," Sherlock interrupted. He would not let his brother depersonalize her - not now. "How long has Molly been unconscious. Tell me, Mycroft."

Mycroft straightened and tilted his head back, the way he always did when he was distancing himself from his emotions. He cleared his throat. "Three days."

Three days. Sherlock tried to wrap his brain around the idea. It had been three days since he had pulled her limp body into his arms, expecting to die with her. It hardly seemed possible. He tried to picture her - her amber-colored eyes or the gentle smile that she seemed to reserve just for him - but all he could bring to mind was her pale face, blood smeared and still as death. He choked on a breath and felt the prickle of moisture on his cheeks. God, how he had failed her.

"Strange, isn't it," Mycroft said. "How all it takes is one traumatic experience to force us to completely reassess our priorities. A lifetime of unwavering certainty, subverted so easily by a single, well-placed bullet to the chest of the person you love."

Sherlock's head snapped up to look at his brother, but Mycroft had turned away to gaze out of the window, giving him some measure of privacy as he dealt with his grief. Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond. Right now, he wasn't sure about much. Except one thing.

"I want to see her."

Mycroft shook his head. "Sorry, Sherlock. She's in the ICU. Immediate family only."

"I am her immediate family," Sherlock retorted, and then he dropped his gaze. "Or I will be, which is all that matters."

To his credit, Mycroft only seemed to lose his train of through for a moment before he replied. "Be that as it may. I am not certain that the hospital will consider your honourable intentions as sufficient grounds to make an exception to their policy. It may be of some comfort to you to hear that her mother has been in to see her every day."

"It is not," Sherlock replied. He narrowed his eyes at his brother.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "I cannot get you in to see her, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock scowled.

"I am a government employee, Sherlock. Not a doctor. Not even my influence extends to the intensive care ward."

Sherlock deliberately turned his head away.

"You are such a child." Mycroft turned back to the chair and started collecting his things. Then he let out a long sigh and let his shoulders slump forward. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

Startled, Mycroft blinked up at him. "You're welcome, I'm sure," he said eventually, but he sounded uncertain. He shook his head. "There are still a few other matters left for us to discuss regarding your experience at the warehouse," he said. "But your doctor was adamant that I not bring it up just yet. Apparently, you need your rest."

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft hadn't listened to the advice of a medical doctor once in his entire life. "Who is my physician?"

"Oh, I wasn't referring to the butchers that run this place," Mycroft clarified with an airy wave of his hand. "Doctor Watson."

Sherlock managed a lopsided smile. Of course.

"He'll be in to see you shortly, I imagine," Mycroft went on. "I'll be back to debrief you sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll see what can be done to facilitate a visit to Miss Hoop - ah, Molly's room." He gave Sherlock a brisk nod and turned toward the door.

"She saved my life," Sherlock said, abruptly. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to say it out loud.

"I know." Mycroft stood with his head bowed, one hand poised on the doorknob. "But she started doing that long before she took a bullet for you." He turned around and leveled a gaze at his brother. "Didn't she?" He didn't stay to wait for an answer.

The door eased shut behind Mycroft, and Sherlock spoke into the empty room.

"Yes," he said softly. "She did."

oooooOOOOOooooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooo

In the end, Sherlock didn't give Mycroft the opportunity to go through official channels. Instead, he simply waited until John arrived and then insisted that they sneak in to see her.

"It's the intensive care ward," John protested, even as he pushed Sherlock's wheelchair toward the elevator. "It's not exactly a place you sneak into."

"You'll think of something," Sherlock assured him. But he was only half paying attention. The rest of his mind was thinking ahead to the moment when he would see Molly again.

"You shouldn't even be out of bed," John said. He backed the wheelchair into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor. "Your doctor is going to skin me."

"Only if she catches you." Sherlock tried to disguise the breathless quality of his voice. As accommodating as John could be, he was, first and foremost, a physician, and he took his Hippocratic oath annoyingly to heart. If he had any inkling that Sherlock was in more pain than he was letting on, the good doctor would turn around and wheel him right back to his room despite his protestations. And so Sherlock gritted his teeth through the pain and kept his breathing as even as he could.

Molly was in a private room, but thankfully not one of the ones directly in front of the nurse's station. Their luck held, and John was able to wheel him into the room without attracting the attention of any of the duty nurses.

John parked Sherlock's wheelchair as close to the bed as the dizzying array of medical equipment would allow. He set the brake on the chair, and then pulled out the chart at the end of the bed. He flipped through the pages, scanning quickly over the notes. "She's breathing on her own. That's good. That's very good." He nodded encouragingly. "She's not woken up yet, but she is showing some reaction to painful stimulus. That's also good."

"Why hasn't she woken up yet?"

John closed the chart and slid it back in the tray. He regarded Sherlock with an expression that could only be called pity, but right now, Sherlock didn't care. He felt pretty damn pitiful.

"It's not hopeless," John said, softly. His words were underscored by the gentle beeping of the monitors that tirelessly tracked Molly's condition. "Have faith in her, Sherlock. She's strong. She's going to come back to you." He pressed a brief hand to Sherlock's shoulder and then went back to check up and down the hallway. Then he drew the curtains so that the room dimmed slightly. "Alright," he said. "You have five minutes. Then I'm taking you back to your room - kicking and screaming if I have to."

Sherlock nodded, but he didn't trust himself to speak. He barely noticed when the door closed behind John.

The figure on the bed was nearly the same shade of white as the sheets upon which she lay. There were tubes and wires crisscrossing her body, but, aside from the nasal cannula that was delivering a steady flow of air to her oxygen-starved body, her face was uncovered. She was on her back, her hands laying prone at her sides. Her hair had been washed and brushed until it shined, but the effect was disturbingly unnatural. She didn't look as though she were asleep. She looked posed, like a waxwork doll of herself.

Sherlock knew what Molly looked like when she was sleeping. How many times had watched her do that by now? She slept with the same easy abandon as a child, usually on her side, limbs splayed and with her face buried in her pillow. She woke with red creases on her cheeks and her hair in wild disarray - nothing like this artificial perfection.

IV needles were taped to the backs of both of her hands, but her left hand was the only thing that he could reach from his wheelchair. He didn't trust his own strength enough to attempt to stand. Tentatively, he brushed a finger across the backs of her knuckles, too afraid of causing her more pain to touch her any further. He was surprised to discover that she felt warm. She looked so cold.

"I'm sorry." His voice was low and rough in the relative silence.

He wasn't even entirely sure what it was that he was apologizing for. That he was responsible for what had happened to her, of course, but there were so many other things that he needed her to forgive him for.

God, he had been such a fool.

Molly's selfless love had carried him through the battlefield during his years away. Without her even being aware of it, she had been the tether to the life he had left behind. Like a beacon in the dark, she had drawn him home at the end of a long and messy mission that might have destroyed him entirely if she had not been there to bring him back from the edge. He had been unwilling to admit it to himself then, and too bloody stubborn to accept it since.

Had he really managed to convince himself that love didn't exist? That it was merely a temporary accident of brain chemistry that plagued lesser minds than his own? He hadn't been just a fool - he'd been a blind and pathetic fool. How much evidence did he need in order to deduce the truth of the thing? That Molly Hooper had loved him for years and that he, unworthy, undeserving and pigheaded as he was, had loved her back for nearly as long. He had tried desperately not to fall in love with her, but the effort had come far too late. She had long since worked her way into his heart and found a permanent home there. He had been falling in love with her for years, but unable to see it for what it was, because he was, quite simply, an idiot.

Love was not the ridiculous fantasy that he had always assumed it must be. It wasn't some amorphous feeling that could wax and wane depending on the moment. It wasn't the act of jumping through arbitrary hoops in order to prove a calculable level of commitment. It had nothing to do with the physical _want_ or even the mental peace he experienced in Molly's presence. It wasn't romantic gestures or effusive declarations. Weren't he and Molly proof enough that the words didn't need to be spoken in order to be felt?

Love was so much simpler than he had thought it was. It was just this - sitting by her bedside and knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would take her place if he could, that he would choose to die if it meant that she could live. Because the world was a better place for having her in it. And his life was only worth the living if she was by his side.

Molly had never said the words to him. She had never needed to. Love had shone out of her, radiant and irrepressible. And then she had stepped in front of a bullet and willingly, purposefully, offered her life for his own. She had etched her 'I love you' into her body in a way that made the actual words pale and meaningless by comparison.

He reached out again and laid his fingers gently on the back of her hand. He needed to touch her, needed to feel the warmth of her skin, to know that she was still there. He needed to believe that she would come back to him. She had to come back. He had so much to make up to her.

"I love you, Molly," he said softly.

In one of those ridiculously sappy films that she liked to watch, this would have been the moment when her eyes would have fluttered opened and she would have grasped his hand and said 'I love you too'. But this wasn't a film, and the only sounds were the uninterrupted electronic tones of the monitoring equipment until the door opened and John returned to take him back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sherlock! How heartbreaking that you should finally figure all of this out now! Let us all hope that in the next chapter - the final chapter - he finally has the chance to tell Molly how he really feels about her.
> 
> The final chapter has been written in its entirety. I will have it out for Katie F to beta by tomorrow, so, hopefully, I'll have it out to you guys in a couple of days. It is, perhaps, a bit anti-climactic, but I felt like Sherlock and Molly needed a little more space to finish up their story. Or maybe, I'm just not ready to let go just yet.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments on the last chapter. I'm thrilled that so many of you are still reading and that you are caught up in the story enough to feel so passionate about it. I cannot begin to tell you how amazing it makes me feel when I get your reviews. Thank you so very much!
> 
> And my gratitude, as always to my amazing beta/cheerleader/friend, Katie F, for all that she does. From wielding her mighty grammar hammer to talking me down off the proverbial ledge, to cheering me on when I can do nothing but headdesk out my frustration - she is the kind of friend everyone should have in their lives. I am so very blessed!


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

"Antone and Sofia Cloutier were found murdered in their apartment just outside of Bruges, Belgium, seven years ago," Mycroft read.

Sherlock sat propped up in his bed, eyeing his hospital lunch dubiously. John had vacated the chair when Mycroft arrived. Now he was leaning back against the wall, listening with rapt interest while Mycroft paged through the file he'd brought in with him.

"Antone was an enforcer for the gang de la Brise de Mer. In 1999, he was arrested for possession of an illegal firearm and held until his trial in late 2000. He agreed to testify against La Familie in exchange for a protection agreement, which was subsequently revoked by the prosecuting judge because Antone had omitted relevant information. Antone and his family disappear from official records at that point. It is noted that at the time of the murders, seven years later, La Familie publicly disavowed any responsibility for the action, while privately agreeing that it did rather neatly take care of a lingering problem."

Sherlock listened dispassionately, more focused on the unidentifiable lump of vaguely organic looking material that he was expected to eat for lunch. He was going to have to send John out for something edible. "No mention of the daughter?"

"Only that one existed," Mycroft said. "Her name is given as Aline Lucia Cloutier. The age matches, but I couldn't obtain a photograph of her from the time before her parents were murdered."

"I don't imagine they were much on family portraits, given their desire to stay out from under the radar of the Corsican mafia," Sherlock said. He pushed his tray away and settled for drinking his tea. "I have no reason to doubt her original story, in regards to her family history, at least. What else?" "

I am merely being thorough," Mycroft said. He flipped forward to another page in the file. "Eighteen months ago, Michael Richardson, an American expatriate and CIA-trained assassin, was reported as being seen in Abu Dhabi in the company of a young woman fitting Miss Cloutier's description. Their apparent attachment was described as one of a romantic nature."

John looked startled, but Sherlock only nodded. This he had deduced for himself, albeit belatedly. When Aline had come to him in St. Petersburg to let him know that she was done with the life, that she had 'found a place', he had gathered from her behaviour that what she really meant was that she had found a _someone_. She had never brought it up after her arrival in London, and he hadn't deigned to mention it himself. Because of course it had ended badly. Wasn't that how every romantic entanglement was concluded? God, would his presuppositions regarding love ever stop coming back to haunt him?

"She already knew who you were when she first encountered you in Barcelona," Mycroft said. It wasn't a question. It was a very good guess. Sherlock nodded again. He steepled his fingers together and let his gaze go distant as he flicked back through his memories.

It all made sense in retrospect, as things tended to do, hindsight being twenty-twenty, or so the saying went. Aline had saved him from Lucho Urbina in Barcelona because she had realized he could be useful to her. She hadn't been in the process of taking down Moriarty's criminal web when he met her. She'd been resuscitating it.

And he had helped her. From country to country, from one obscure network cell to another, he had led her to each and every one of them. He had given her the remains of Jim Moriarty's criminal enterprise on a silver platter, and he had even gone so far as to help her clean out the dead wood. And then, as an added bonus, he had handed over every piece of information she needed to track down the people who had helped him.

And all because he had been a lonely fool on a mission. So desperate for the companionship that he insisted that he didn't need, he had thrown open the doors and invited the fox into the henhouse with open arms.

John's voice sounded strained. "Wait a minute. Aline and Richardson - they were together the whole time?" He shook his head as if trying to shake a thought into place. "But that means the injuries that she sustained - "

"Were self-inflicted, yes," Sherlock said, thankful for a reason to push his thoughts aside. "Or as good as, at any rate. I'm sure Richardson did the actual damage, but she let him do it."

"Oh my God." John looked suddenly pale. "But they were together? He tortured her, Sherlock. She was beaten and cut up for weeks…and she - she let him do it?"

"Added some rather creditable realism to her story though, didn't it?" Sherlock grimaced. He couldn't decide if it was comforting or disturbing that there were people whose concept of love was even more twisted than his own had been.

oooooOOOOOooooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooo

Sherlock was released from the hospital three days later. He was still moving slowly and in a considerable amount of pain, but his physician cleared him to go home, citing her fear that one of the nurses might try to smother him in his sleep if he remained under their care any longer.

A subdued celebration had greeted his return to Baker Street. John had helped him climb the stairs to his flat. Mary, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Sargent du Crieff were all there to welcome him home. He was grateful for their well-wishes, but Molly's absence left a hole in his chest that ached far worse than the gunshot wound ever had.

Still, he had waited patiently until each of his friends had patted him on his good arm or given him a gentle hug, and then left so that he could get some rest. Then he had called a cab, struggled back down the stairs to the street, and gone directly back to the hospital.

Over the ensuing week, the ICU nurses quickly proceeded from sympathetic understanding to frustration to flat out fury before Mycroft managed to wrangle the necessary dispensation that allowed Sherlock to visit Molly's room. Then the entire staff had thrown their hands up in resignation and merely worked around him. He stayed away during the day when Mrs. Hooper was present, choosing instead to slip in after visiting hours were over. He was not yet ready to share either his grief or his time alone with Molly.

Mostly, he sat in silence. He was still not good with words - not the ones that mattered, anyway. But he had a plan. When she woke up - not if, when - then he would tell her everything he needed her to hear. He would find the words, or he would spend the rest of his life showing her - or both. Preferably both.

Occasionally, when the night grew long and the quiet became too heavy even for him, he read to her. The words filled the emptiness in the room, and for a time, eased the ache that accompanied the question that he felt with every breath - was she ever going to wake up?

Eleven days after the events at the warehouse, Sherlock was in his usual spot in Molly's room, sitting back in the chair next to her bed, reading aloud from a recent edition of Analytical Chemistry. It was getting late and it was time he headed for home. The night nurse on duty was one of the more tolerant variety, but he preferred not to push her forbearance any further than was absolutely necessary. You would be proud of me, Molly, he thought with a wry quirk of his lips.

Sherlock touched Molly's cheek gently in farewell and then returned the chair back to the side of the room for Mrs. Hooper's morning visit. And then he headed toward the door. He was reaching for the handle when he felt a sudden, odd shift in his awareness. He froze with his hand partially extended, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest.

There had been no sound, no movement, no alteration in the frequency or tone of the monitoring equipment, nothing to explain it, and yet, somehow, he knew. He curled his fingers into a fist and closed his eyes, so very afraid that he was wrong. He spoke softly, imbuing the word with every ounce of hope he had ever felt. "Molly?"

In a voice as soft as a butterfly's wings, he heard her reply. "Sherlock?"

A shuddering gasp tore from his throat and he was at her side before his shocked mind had even made the conscious thought. He dropped to his knees by her bedside, hardly able to believe that his body was capable of containing so much happiness without exploding.

Molly's eyes were open. She was blinking heavily. Puzzled lines furrowing her brow, but she turned her head so that she could look at him, and even managed a faint smile. "Hi."

"Hello, Molly," he said. His voice was thick, his hands shaking

"I don't feel so great," she whispered. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Sherlock reached over and pressed the call button for the night nurse.

"You look beautiful." Her eyes went wide, and she fought to focus on him for a moment.

"Why are you crying?" She raised a hand as if to reach for him, and came up short against the tension of the IV lines. "Oh."

"You're going to be fine," he assured her. He took her hand carefully, clasping it between his own, letting the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. "You've been ill for a little while, but you're going to be alright now."

The night nurse entered the room and flipped the light on with an exasperated sigh. "Mr. Holmes, how many times - "

"She's awake," he said without taking his eyes off of Molly's face. He smiled down at her and then bent his head to kiss the back of her hand. "She's awake, and she needs you."

"Oh, that's wonderful," the nurse exclaimed. She began bustling around Molly's bed, pausing to put in a call to the nurse's station before she began checking vital signs. "Miss Hooper," she said as she leaned over to examine Molly's pupils. "Molly, my name is Nurse Mackenzie. Do you know where you are?"

The nurse spoke softly and calmly as she explained everything to Molly. Molly seemed a bit bemused to hear about the shooting and the eleven days she had subsequently lost, but she nodded in understanding.

Sherlock moved out of the way, but refused to relinquish his hold on Molly's hand. He wasn't willing to give up the sensation of her fingers curling around his own for anything. No doubt they would chase him out as soon as the doctor arrived, but until then, he needed to touch her, to see the life behind her eyes once again. And he needed to speak to her. There was so much that he needed to say.

When the nurse had concluded her preliminary checks and gotten the necessary responses from Molly, she patted her patient on the shoulder. "We're so happy to have you back with us," she concluded. "Now, I'm going to go see if the doctor is on his way." Nurse Mackenzie's eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's and she smiled. "Be right back."

As soon as the nurse walked away, Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips across Molly's cheek. "Molly," he began. "Molly, I - " He swallowed hard, trying to dislodge a lump as every word he'd never been able to articulate to her clogged his throat, all clamoring to be heard at once. How to tell her how precious she was to him? How to show his appreciation for all that she had done, for all the times she had saved his life and all the ways she had saved it? How could he phrase the words in such a way that she would understand? His inadequacies plagued him, twisting in his gut. He had to get this part right. She had to know that she was loved - that he loved her. But how - "

I know, Sherlock." Molly's voice was barely a whisper, her breath warm against his ear. She slipped her hand from between his and reached up to touch the side of his face with her fingertips. He lifted his head so that he could see her. She was pale, and dark circles bruised the thin skin under her eyes, but she was looking up at him with a gentle smile on her lips. "I know."

The doctor arrived then, barreling into the room and launching immediately into introductions as he looked over the nurse's notes. Sherlock considered standing his ground and holding Molly's hand until they physically threw him out of the room, but the nurse came up behind him and tugged gently on his arm.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," she said, gently encouraging. "Miss. Hooper is awake, and that's a marvelous thing, to be sure. But she needs her rest. Let the doctor look her over and see where we're at, shall we?" Grudgingly, Sherlock gave Molly's hand a final squeeze and then allowed the nurse to tow him out of the room. And then, when he was alone in the stairwell, he sank down onto the top step and wept.

oooooOOOOOooooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooo

"The doctor says I should be able to go home in a day or two." Sherlock looked up from the journal he was reading to see Molly giving him an expectant look from her nest of pillows. She was pale, but the dark rings under her eyes had diminished, and her cheeks shone slightly pink from the exertion of her daily physical therapy. He arched a dubious eyebrow at her, and she scowled at him.

"If the doctor says I can go home, you can't make me stay."

Sherlock looked back down at his reading to hide the smile he couldn't quite smother. Physician heal thyself, indeed.

It had been nearly two weeks since Molly had woken from the coma. They had been slow and frustrating weeks as she came back to herself only gradually, but the doctors had been thrilled with her progress. Her chances for a full recovery were excellent. She still tired very easily, but she was staying awake and aware for a lot more of the day now. She really would be ready to go home soon.

The thought pleased him, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel anxious. Molly was safe here. He needn't worry about her well-being as long as she was cinched up tight in a hospital ward. There were so many dangers on the other side of these doors. And no matter how much he might want to, he couldn't protect her from all of them. It had all been so much easier when he hadn't had anything to lose. Now, suddenly, the hazardous nature of his profession gave him pause. There would be other James Moriartys and Aline Cloutiers. There would always be someone in the world that wished him harm. Quite aside from his abilities as a detective, he just seemed to have that effect on people. And with Molly in his life, she would forever be falling into the crosshairs of some megalomaniac with a vendetta.

He looked up at her through his lashes. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her hair piled on top of her head, her glasses perched on her nose as she paged through a forensics journal.

He loved her. The idea that he was capable of loving, much less admitting to it, was still new to him. He was still trying to get used to the concept. It changed things in more ways than he had anticipated. He wanted to protect her. Part of him wanted to argue that this was reason enough to push her away - to keep her safe by forcing her outside of his sphere. If you love her, keep her safe. But it was another part of him that was winning the argument - if you love her, let her decide.

Sherlock got to his feet and set his own reading aside. He noticed that his hands felt cold and his chest was suddenly tight. Good God, he was nervous. How utterly ridiculous. He shook the sensation off and went to sit on the edge of the bed. "Molly," he said, and then stopped to clear his throat.

Molly looked up from her reading and smiled. "Well, hello, Sherlock."

"Yes, hello." He tried taking a deep breath. "I was wondering something." She raised her eyebrows above the rims of her glasses.

"Oh? What's that then?"

Oh, go on and get it over with, you idiot, he chided himself fiercely. "What do you think of beekeeping?"

Molly's mouth formed a little 'o' of surprise and she blinked up at him. "What do I think of…"

"Beekeeping," he supplied. "Yes."

She seemed to try and start a variety of sentences before she finally managed to get out a complete one. "I don't really know, Sherlock. I mean, I've never really thought much about…beekeeping." She squinted at him. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, of course I am." He waved the question away. "It's just, you see… I've been thinking about moving to the country to take up beekeeping."

"You've been what?" Molly exclaimed. Her eyes were shining with amusement. "Why, for heaven's sake?" He was starting to feel a bit self-conscious. "It's safer," he said. "For you."

"For me?" She reached out a hand and laid it on his knee. "You've thought about moving to the country to take up beekeeping, for me?"

"It's safer," he repeated. He picked her hand up in his own and examined the fine blue lines that ran just beneath her pale skin. "I want you to be safe. I will do anything it takes to keep you safe. And if it means that we leave London behind and live in a cottage in the country with only the bees for company, then I am willing to do it for you - for us." He hesitated and then went on. "Besides, I find bees fascinating."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said tenderly. She put her hands on his cheeks and pressed her forehead to his. "That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me." She laughed and kissed him firmly on the lips. "But, no. You don't need to move to the country and take up beekeeping for my sake." She looked thoughtful. "Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day." She tilted her head to the side and regarded him seriously. "What's brought this on?" "

Well, the thing is," he said. "You're going to be going home soon." He recaptured one of her hands and held it firmly in his own. He swallowed hard. "Where is home going to be, Molly?"

"Wherever you are, Sherlock," she replied at once. "I want it to be wherever you are." She smiled at him. "But whatever you want is fine. The details don't matter. I can go back to my flat, and we can be like we were before. I'm not asking anything of you that you aren't comfortable with giving. I just want to be with you when I can."

Sherlock swallowed again. It felt like his heart was climbing up his throat. But this is what he had been working up to, and there was no point in waiting any longer. The words were stuck, but he could show her. With trembling fingers he reached into his jacket pocket and produced the tiny black box he had purchased weeks ago. It was amazing that something so small could carry the weight of all his hopes. He held it in the palm of his hand and tried to remember to breathe.

Molly had gone wide-eyed. She sat completely frozen with her left hand still clasped in his right. "Sherlock?" she said after a moment. Her voice was high-pitched and breathy.

He placed the box in her hand and and wrapped her fingers around it. "I'm not good with words. I never have been. Some things I am better at showing." He looked down at her small, capable hand clasped within his own and smiled. "But some things do need to be said. And what I'm saying, Molly Hooper, is that I love you." He released her fingers and sat up, hoping that it had been enough.

Molly sat looking at the black box for a long time. Then she reached out a tentative finger and brushed it across the velvety surface of the lid. She looked up at him, her dark eyes swimming. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," he said. "When am I ever not sure about anything?"

Molly slowly opened the box. She drew in a breath. "Oh."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "So, is that a - " She laughed. "Yes. Of course, yes."

He kissed her then. It was sweet and lingering, a gentle pressure of lips to seal their newly-minted contract. But more than that, it was their new beginning - two lonely lives ending in order to make way for one new, shared existence. A life together - what an extraordinary concept.

That he now cherished the idea he had once scorned was a testament to the innumerable changes that Molly had so gently wrought in his life. She had changed his perception of what it was to love through her own quiet constancy and steadfast nature. She had shown him how much more there was to love than what his senses could tell - that all the facts and figures and information and data in the world were no match for the powerful truth of the heart.

They had come back from balancing precariously at the edge of death and been given another chance to do something important with their lives. It was a chance few were given, and Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to do with his.

Sherlock Holmes was going to devote every bit of the rest of his life to solving the problem of Molly Hooper.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I can't begin to tell how strange it feels to write those two words. Sherlock and Molly have been keeping me company nearly every day for more than a year now. It is going to be very hard to say goodbye.
> 
> Please allow me to honestly and wholeheartedly thank every one of you who has stuck with me throughout the writing of this. I have cherished every comment, kudos and bookmark. Each one of you played a major part in keeping me going. Your kind words and encouragement have been the best part of this entire experience for me.
> 
> And to my dear friend, Katie F - There isn't the slightest chance that would have finished this if it weren't for you. Thank you for wielding your mighty grammar hammer like an Asgardian thunder god, for talking me down off of innumerable ledges and out of ridiculous plot points. Thank you for listening to me rant and rave about this and for encouraging me to keep going even when you knew it meant that you were just going to have to listen to me rant and rave some more. Your patience, tolerance and ninja-like beta capabilities have been so very much appreciated. You're the best, Astro:)
> 
> The original point of this exercise was so that I could get some practice under my belt before I tried my hand at writing a 'real' story. I promised myself that when I finished The Science of Perception, I would then focus on completing a work of original fiction, so that is what I am going to try to do. I will never be far away from fanfiction, either reading or writing, but I will be taking a little bit of a break from it while I make the effort to try and turn my hobby into a career.
> 
> Thanks again,
> 
> Tallulah


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